


Gold in the Afternoon

by nerdrumple



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing!Gold, F/M, Lingerie Shop Owner!Belle, Though I'm not fond of the term 'crossdressing'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdrumple/pseuds/nerdrumple
Summary: Mr. Gold thinks little of the pretty new tenant who’s opened a pretty little lingerie shop - until she suggests that he try on her wares.





	1. Chapter 1

This was . . . far less tawdry than he was expecting. 

When the new tenant had mentioned she’d be opening a lingerie shop in his building, he’d raised an eyebrow, but nodded his approval. Money was money, after all. But a town like Storybrooke, modest and conservative, wouldn’t have been his first choice for such an endeavor. 

What had he been imagining before? Maybe awkwardly positioned stage lights and feather boas adorning mannequins. Or, on the better end, something clean and white and French-looking, like the inside of a boudoir with round mirrors and black & white stripes beside pink for the effect of a delectable confection.

But what confronted him was no less than surreal in its beauty. No mannequins, just the lingerie itself, suspended in air or placed delicately on tables. When she’d put in her request to paint, he expected something white and crisp, but the room was dark and warm, exposed brick painted a deep blue, complementing the shining russet of the hardwood floors. Floral bunches hung from the ceiling and lush bouquets were placed generously throughout the store, and how did she afford so many fresh flowers? Small copper lights twinkled here and there, nothing to overwhelm. They looked like stars against the blue.

The whole place felt like a cabin turned inside out, at night when the sun had set and one was enjoying the splendor of nature, but instead he was enjoying the splendor of sex. Albeit in hints and teases, of course. 

The lingerie in question wasn’t what he expected, either. No animal prints or colors that would have the words “hot” or “electric” placed in front of them. Everything was either deep in color or demurely pastel. They were adorned with emblems and embroidery, ribbons and ruffles. Lace, of course, and many, many florals. Some of the bras seemed useless in function; how was a mere bit of fabric with no wiring or padding supposed to support a breast? He realized, soon, that these were clearly not pieces meant for such support or everyday wear underneath regular clothing, they were meant to be worn . . . alone. Complete outfits all by themselves. 

Rompers and bodysuits, corsets and teddies. Some of the pieces seemed to consist of more straps than was strictly necessary; this, too, seemed a choice of art over function. A mint bralette hung near his shoulder, stitched with what looked like lavender blossoms and extra straps that would criss cross the midsection, also adorned in blossoms. It was suspended in air along a branch, as were several other bralettes, over a table with fat peonies filling a silver milk bucket. Surrounding the bucket were several panties, laid out lovingly, each to match their suspended bralette counterpart.

Despite the overwhelming effect the place had on his senses, there wasn’t much product out. Instead of drawers stuffed with panties, the pieces were laid out individually, like an art gallery, allowing him to appreciate each panty and bra with the reverence it was due.

“You must be Mr. Gold,” he heard before him, and he tried to take his attention off the high-necked olive number that had caught his eye, transparent save for where stitched red roses would cover the nipples, and saw a chestnut-haired beauty approach him. 

He’d already wandered into a damn meadow, of course he’d find a princess at the center of it.

“Miss French,” he said, recognizing her lilt from their few phone conversations, “are you running a flower shop or a lingerie store? I feared for a moment that I had come to the wrong address.”

“Thank goodness you didn’t, or you’d accuse me of withholding rent.”

Boobies and breasts and swells and were her nipples the same dusty pink as her lips? He had to blink away those thoughts before he thoroughly embarrassed himself with tenting trousers. For heaven’s sake, he’d seen lingerie before!

“Do you like the shop?” she asked, gleaming smile, lovely teeth. She held out a hand in gesture of the place, and he tried out a smile in return.

“It’s very whimsical,” he finally said.

Her smile curled a bit at his dismissive tone, but she eyed him like she knew his mind better than the words he’d said. “Have you gotten much business?” he asked, trying to recover. 

“Well, not from Storybrooke, no. The majority of my sales come from online. But it’s nice to finally have a space, and get to know the curious few Storybrooke residents brave enough to wander in.” She smiled again, a winning thing, and he admired her beauty once more. “Tell me, are you brave, Mr. Gold?”

When he answered her with little more than a smirk, she lowered her eyes with her own secret smile. “Come with me, I’ll fetch you the rent.”

He followed her to the little checkout counter in the middle, where more floral bunches awaited him, along with a few bottles of oils and perfumes. He noticed some shell and floral shaped emblems in a bowl, and realized with reddening cheeks that they were pasties, a sign labeling them as  _ breast petals _ .

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said, handing him a sleek black envelope. He could appreciate her taste, from her lingerie shop to the envelope, to her short circle skirt to her towering heels, to her curling hair, her blue eyes, her beguiling scent, was it roses or?

He needed to stop. He was letting the wiles of dainty lace and a pretty face get the better of him. Best to just collect the damn rent and get out the door.

“Yes,” he mumbled in awkward agreement, not bothering to return the sentiment or betray his feelings. He tipped his head at her, then turned for his hasty exit.

No clacking heels followed him, and for that he was grateful as he paused at a table near the door, a glint of stitching catching his eye. He looked down to see a pair of panties sewn with deep red scallops, lace panels on the side. He couldn’t help himself, he reached down and ran a finger along their trim.

They were soft, their color enchanting. He ran a finger up, lifting the scallops carefully, seeing that each was a transparent material that, when layered over each other, offered modesty through vague opaqueness. The whole effect was cloudlike, making him think of smoke, or magic. He traced his hand down to the price tag, black like her envelope, and prepared to flip it over.

“Do you see something you like?” she asked softly from behind him, startling him as he hadn’t heard her come near, and just how long had he spent looking at this pair?

He dropped the tag, pulled his hand away. “Oh, no one to buy for, dearie, even if I did like something.”

“Well, you could always buy for yourself.”

He scoffed. “For later, you mean? When I finally manage to whittle down that line of interested parties always knocking at my door?”

“No, I mean, _for_ _yourself_.”

He turned and stared blankly at her, then narrowed his brows. “You don’t mean to suggest - ”

“The piece you’re looking at  _ was _ made for a person with a penis,” she picked up the panties he’d been fingering, and held them across her palms. “See this hollow, here? That’s meant to allow comfort for a penis.”

“That’s . . . very . . .”

She smiled at his flubbing. “There’s nothing wrong with indulging in lace. Especially when you so clearly like it.”

He stared at her again, her smile so genuine, so unwavering. God, he  _ did _ want the pair.

“Maybe . . . another time,” he said, leaving with another nod. Was he capable of no other gesture?

Her smile fell as he made his final retreat from her presence, and she eyed the pair of panties in her hands once more, their oxblood color matching her nail polish. Every pair she had in the store was featured online, she thought idly.

He was halfway down the block when she finally caught up to him. Running in heels was difficult, after all.

“Mr. Gold,” she huffed, “here’s my card. In case you’d rather” huff, huff, “browse online.”

Her smiling face, tinged pink and certainly not from exertion, had him reaching for the card. As she trailed back off to her shop, he looked down at its design, expecting another floral concoction. But it was a simple white, with a simple circle stamp, with a simple logo:  _ The Loved One.  _

Now, what kind of name for a store was that? It might have applied to her, but it certainly didn’t apply to him. He thought of tossing the card aside, but instead it somehow found its way inside his breast pocket, a gentle hand patting it close to his chest, where his beat thudded harder than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Loved One_ was a real lingerie  & vintage shop I was quite smitten with, but it closed down in 2015. Oh, well.
> 
> This is just a fun little smutty fic before I get my rear in gear for RCIJ. Will probably be around 3-5 chapters. Prompts welcome, if you'd like, I'm on tumblr [@nerdrumple](http://nerdrumple.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

He regretted buying so large a monitor.

Jefferson had said this was the best, sleek and silver and _just beautiful graphics, superb!_ but did it have to be so wide, so towering? Why had he trusted that man? No one else appreciated his ideal for aesthetic the way Jefferson did, but the man clearly didn’t understand the fear of Big Brother watching, or anyone bloody watching, because no peeking over the shoulder was necessary with this thing. Just a mere glance in his direction from across the room and anyone would be privy to the fact that Mr. Gold was browsing panties online.

Miss French certainly had her work cut out for her. He had wondered how a shop that managed to display each individual piece of inventory like art managed to turn a profit with so little stock, and now he knew why. Every piece was hand-stitched, every piece painstakingly designed - and damn expensive. Nothing was less than three digits, and it was easy to dismiss small bits of transparent fabric with large price tags as ostentatious at first . . . at first. But Gold was slowly falling in love, God help him.

He found the red piece quickly. It was photographed so beautifully that he saved the pictures, though he knew pictures would never be enough. She had collections, he realized, when he found the matching corset to accompany his lovely red panties, and he rubbed his forehead; he was sweating.

Could he wear this under his suit? Perhaps, perhaps; he wore silk boxers often but these panties seemed so delicate. A corset would be cumbersome under a three-piece, perhaps, but alone? Alone, in his room, in front of the mirror, or in his bed, or lounging in his sofa - he had a lovely, pristine vintage sofa. He wiped at his forehead again.

Would she know he’d placed the order? That it was him, Mr. Gold? Of course she would. He’d eyed that exact pair. She knew his address from his business dealings - no, no, she knew the shop. His home address was his own, but did he want to risk that? There were confidentiality agreements in doing business, and Miss French didn’t seem the type to gossip, what little he knew of her. No, she clearly took great pride in her creations, had no qualms about gender, so why would she mock him, to himself or others? Her offering of her business card was encouragement, her quiet way of saying _I know you’re not ready yet, take your time_. That kind of person did not mock.

And oh, she was lovely. _The Loved One._  If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall for her, right here at his desk, with his towering monitor, displaying her soul to him, one lovely bra and panty at a time.

The mint pair was charming, as was the mauve, but he preferred the richer, darker colors.The not-quite-black blues, the bloodlike reds, the forest greens. Oh, he wanted the red pair, but for now he’d order something else - green, yes - so as to throw off the scent that it was _him_ making the order. The red pair would come soon, soon.

What was it she had said? _These were made for a person with a penis_. So how was he to know which pieces were for that and which weren’t? There was a section on her site about her process, and browsing it led him to this tidbit: _Every piece ordered is custom-made for the wearer. These are not women’s garments or men’s garments, but_ your _garments. When placing an order, please include your measurements and other specifications for your body type._

He clicked to his cart. Yes, there it was, the section asking for preferences and measurements. He was well acquainted with his own, having had many a suit custom-made for him. Surely this wasn’t any different?

He swiveled his chair around, looked down the hallway into the foyer of his entry way. He had a beautiful home, meticulously decorated. Fine paintings, lush rugs, trinkets he adored. Each piece of furniture was selected with a specific look in mind when it all came together for a single view. Each room was a presentation, each hallway. His closet already attested to this fact - designer suits, shoes, ties. He loved beauty, he hoarded it like a dragon.

And Miss French’s creations were beautiful.

He chewed his tongue. This was a bit of fun now, wasn’t it? It was fun to get caught up in filling a cart with lovely things, fun to imagine them all arriving and waiting for him on his doorstep when he got home from work. He’d had this same feeling when he decorated his home, when he found the right suit, the right shoes. But those pursuits were usual, predictable, nothing to raise an eyebrow at. But this? This . . . had been fun, but now it was over.

It was over.

The thought tasted hollow, like the beginning of January when Christmas lights are taken down. Fun’s over, back to normal, back to mundane. The feeling left him scowling.

He spun his chair back around, grabbed the mouse, and placed his order.

Two weeks later, the package arrived at his door. The two weeks frightened him, it meant she specifically made these for him. Miss French had sat in her shop, or her apartment, or anywhere, and held the fabric, stitched the seams - where her hands had been would now be on his body. The thought choked him a little as he walked up to his room, up to his bed, and sat with his new acquisition on his lap. But all thought left when he opened the package.

Miss French had left nothing to chance. The box was black, her logo stamped in silver, and the only thing marring her design was the shipping label - but inside, inside was another thing altogether. Another box, delicately wrapped in crepe, and in that box, oh! Velvet-lined cushion to cradle his new wares, ribbons that held everything in place. Blossoms, of course, he expected no less, but fake blossoms, as real would likely crumble. The whole thing was perfumed, rose and bergamot, and along the top lid, held inside with gilded corners - her card, larger this time, a square - her logo, stamped in silver again. He plucked at the card, turned it around. God, a handwritten note.

 _You Are Loved_.

How dare she.

Perhaps they all said that, every package. But he let the message fall, dismissed it from his mind. For the green was capturing him now, another scalloped affair, only this time the scallops were an illusion created with thread rather than individual bits. Sage green ribbon detailed the top and legs, and again near the crotch. He huffed out a breath, heavy and rough, how long had he been holding it?

A piece of her shop was in his home now, with all the whimsy and perfume it carried. But there was also that warm and dark feeling from her shop, here with him, here, now. Perhaps the shop’s name wasn’t so ridiculous after all.

The matching corset, he’d ordered that too - green, threaded scallop pattern, sage ribbon running along the boning, God, so beautiful - he held it up, its weight so little, its design so careful.

He placed the items back in the box, and thought about placing the box in his closet, or under the bed, only to open the box again. Like a music box, every time he opened it, that scent wafted out (roses!) along with the feeling of something (someone?) soft wanting to touch him. Lid on, it disappeared, lid off . . . oh, God. To hell with it. He tossed the lid across his room.

Nudity had become a bland thing, honestly, but in that moment it was thrilling. Out of his wool and into the air, he stood in front of his mirror and positioned his foot at the entrance of this new endeavor, his hands clasping the sides of the green and sage. He stepped in, one foot after the other, rose, and straightened.

Oh!

Slipping into boxers was an easy thing, and boxer briefs hugged his thighs in a pleasant sort of way. But these. _Oh_ , these.

How they held him. Like a gentle cupping, a caress. Not just his cock, but his testicles too. Not too tight or constricting, but skin against skin, such was the luxury of the fabric. He turned, slowly, his reflection something new to him, something he’d never seen before. The set did wonders for his rear. The beauty of it amazed him, he’d never thought of himself this way. His suits meant to hide him, encase him in something more handsome and sturdy than he was, but this, this. This wanted to highlight him, show him off. His throat bobbed, and he wiped at his face.

Did she like this? he wondered. Of course she did, she made the thing. And great, now he was thinking of an oval face and wide smile, and getting an erection right now would be imprudent. He didn't want to ruin the pair just after its arrival. But surely Miss French accounted for such things as _erections_ when constructing her panties. Surely she enjoyed wearing her wares and spending time with a partner who enjoyed wearing them too, and would she enjoy spending time with him?

He blinked the thought away, and focused on  his reflection once more. This feeling, oh! His chest was naked and his legs were bare, but this small bit of fabric, covering so little of him, made his body feel exciting again. Clavicles and chest and belly and that bit of hair leading down to his groin, didn’t he look beautiful?

The corset now, he wanted to try it, complete the ensemble. He held it up in front of himself, ran his thumb over the grommets in the back. Hmm.  

The cord to tie it was loose and waiting in the box, and too eager to thread himself in he simply wrapped the thing around himself, trying to secure it where he thought it would rest. He turned to his mirror again, and blinked. He saw a snake, a lizard, but without the connotation of vile, without the implication of sin. He saw beauty, beauty, beauty. He reached up, ran a finger down the embroidered scallops, feeling their dips with the thread, one two three, then up and counting again. His nipples barely peeked out above the top, and would they still do so once he finally had it on properly?

I can’t lace myself in, he realized, and it crushed his lungs, that thought. Perhaps if he laced it loosely before slipping it on, and then, with the use of his mirror, managed to pull it tight and in place? But then the bow, it would hit just below his shoulder blades, surely, how would he tie it?

He swallowed. He hadn’t thought this through. There had been plenty of options online that laced in the front, but of course he’d chosen the one that laced in the back. The panties, their delicate beauty across his cock and rear, they would do for now.

Or he could simply order another set.

The thought thrilled him. It was a rush similar to when he found a new suit that cut his shoulders and waist just right - a feeling of _more_ , yes, good, I need _more_. Like his suits, he knew this was the beginning of a great new collection, and he smiled at the possibilities.

He rest the corset back onto its cushion in the box, and grabbed his cane. He had some shopping to do, from the comfort of that monitor that didn’t seem so looming anymore.

Later that evening, behind a closed sign in the back room of a small shop, at a work table billowed by delicate fabrics - Belle heard her laptop ping. The small rock of trepidation that had first curdled in her stomach two weeks ago curdled once more, and she opened her email.

"Oh!" she cried, a hand covering her smile and the other grabbing her stomach, aching as that rock dissolved into relief and tinkling laughter. She rose and paced the room in aimless circles of bubbling, excited energy, unable to contain her joy.  When finally tempered, she sat at her computer once more, intent on the task at hand. She had another order to fulfill, another hollow at the front to construct, another mystery to occupy her weeks until that mystery felt ready to uncover himself.


	3. Chapter 3

He stood in front of her shop, thumb rubbing the top of his cane in a tedious circle, waiting for him to move.

There was an excitement to his standing there, like he was eager and ready to greet an old friend once he stepped inside. So in love was he with her creations that he felt he knew her, a special part of her, a hidden part. But it wasn’t hidden, it was wide open, right in front of him, displayed in her shop. He was the one who was hidden. He had to reprimand himself before he stepped in there and made a fool of himself, treating their relationship like more than it was.

He couldn’t help himself. His latest package had arrived that morning.

So excited was he for its arrival that he waited to leave the house to go about his business until her package had appeared at his door, and Miss French’s timing did not disappoint. Neither did her wares - a black set this time, the edges piped in a creamy peach color.

They were less showy than his first pair, or his second, or his third - a simple silk with no embellishment beyond the peach. They were so unlike his green scaled pair, the pair that ignited that first burst of love he felt for Miss French’s creations. His other purchases - a dusky grey, then a red (not _the_ red, not yet) were covered in enough details that to wear them under clothing would be to chafe or tear or harm them.

He’d expanded beyond panties and corsets and found he had an affinity for garter belts and stockings. He could only enjoy them at home, though - it seemed in order to keep their beauty preserved he had to wear them free and open of the constraints of regular clothing. This was fine and good, but he wanted something he could keep with him longer than an hour confined to his bedroom. This new pair, black with their frank peach piping - they were similar enough to silk boxers, yes.

Perhaps that’s what gave him the confidence to wear them while going about his business that day. Standing in front of her shop now, rubbing carefully at his cane.

The panties felt fine under his trousers, and he was sure one fine material against another wouldn’t lead to any regrets. They were comfortable, terribly so, hugging him just right. It felt natural to walk down the street in them, the gentle cupping of his cock and testicles as he tapped down the street. Yes, similar enough to briefs, no worries to be had.

Rent day, rent day. There was something thrilling about speaking with one person after another and having them go completely unaware of his new indulgence - this was its own indulgence, its own exciting secret as he went about his day. What did Mr. Gold have on beneath his wool trousers? No one knew but him.

Well. No one but Miss French.

Oh, the lovely Miss French. Her shop had become a favorite destination on rent day, one he always saved for last. He could see the stock he admired online in person, he could silently note all her small changes month to month - the new fresh flowers, the new scents, the new few items she didn’t make by hand - stockings, jewelry, those _breast petals_. The way she’d smile at his approach.

Would she know?

Did he want her to?

He huffed out a breath, and moved his damn feet, moved his damn cane.

No tinkling of bells greeted him when he entered her shop, but instead a twinkling of lights. An interesting choice to alert her of a customer’s arrival - those copper lights, they twinkled not all at once, but in a slow blinking series, one after the other before glowing solid again. He marveled at the lights’ path until the overhead music caught him. Soft, slow, more tinkling, a guitar or piano? A husky female voice sang, and he realized he knew the song. Something, something from when he was young. Nico? He felt equally charmed and annoyed by the realization.

She was at the counter ahead, like she usually was, head down and scribbling in a notebook before he caught her eye and she smiled at him. Slow and warm, her lips parting until a set of white teeth were gleaming at him. He swallowed.

She finished her scribble, and rounded the corner to greet him.

Walk straight ahead, he told himself. But how difficult it was! Every month he dealt with this - it was impossible to browse like any other customer, his love of her work was too great. Just to his left hung a girdle he’d seen online, something bronze and black and Greek looking. The urge to stop and touch was strong, and goodness to his right were those red panties he favored so, then that rose-emblem tipped olive bralette, and he blinked and forced himself to focus on Miss French’s smile up ahead.

Her sweetheart neckline, her rosy lips, her chestnut curls. His legs as he walked, simple steps, eager steps, the way her handiwork held him.

_Wouldsheknowwouldsheknowwouldsheknowwouldsheknow did he want her to?_

Conversation. Yes, start with that.

“How is business, Miss French?”

“It’s going well. And yourself? Pawnbroking a booming business?”

“About as booming as it will ever be.”

She smiled, he smiled. Her clacking heels came to a halt in front of him and he tried not to admire the dip of her clavicle or the red of her nails. He accepted the black envelope she held out for him with a usual hand, a gesture familiar with every tenant. Her envelope always ended up in his breast pocket, though, while the others sat dutifully in his suitcase.

He smiled, she smiled. He nodded, awkwardly, kept his eyes to her face, waited for hers to dip down. Down to where black and peach cradled him, made him feel lovely and beautiful. But her eyes held his, stayed politely connected to his. They only dipped with the motion of her envelope into his jacket. Did she like the cut? Shirt choice to tie? The pocket square?

Her expression grew, shifted, changed to one he would have interpreted as sleepy until she raised her chin.

“Belle,” she said.

“Pardon?”

That smile of hers grew, and her eyes shifted, bashful. “You know, we keep having the same conversation.”

“Oh?” he said.

“Yeah. How’s business; good. How’s pawnbroking; the usual. But we’ve moved beyond that, don’t you think? The ritual formalities of landlord and tenant have been met, and I think it’s high time we moved into the territory of proper friends.”

He swallowed again, but his stomach flipped in excitement. “And what do you suggest?”

“How about we start this conversation over? Ask me about business again.”

His thumb moved over his cane again, hot and fast, and he licked his lips. “All right. How’s business?”

She stood straighter and tossed her hair back with a gentle flick of her head. “I’m turning a modest profit. More than modest. About the same I made as a librarian.”

“You were a librarian?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, before, in Boston. But I decided to take a chance on a small town, open up my shop.”

More questions popped into his head, and oh how he could picture her in a dusty corridor, bordered on either side by sagging shelves of books! In her lovely circle skirt on a step ladder, but with that lovely olive number up top, the extra straps criss-crossing her bare torso, and perhaps he should order next -

“Now you - how’s pawnbroking?”

He blinked in slow reaction, then tried a chuckle for recovery. “We both know my true business isn’t pawnbroking.”

She pursed her lips in a funny grin, then leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Loan shark?”

He chuckled again, raising his eyebrows. “Yes, sometimes, if you want the dirty laundry. But no, my truly profitable endeavor, and the more boring one, is that of landlord.”

“Ah, yes,” she said simply, eyelashes batting down. He shifted his stance, felt his wool against the silk she’d made him, and when he felt it, could she feel it too? Wait, was she flirting?

His mind swirled, from his trepidation to the need to look away a moment from those dusky, rosy lips. She stepped back, and he breathed again.

She turned, headed further into her shop, and he followed.

“What brought you to Storybrooke?” he asked. “Why not stay in Boston?”

“Just wanted something new,” she said, straightening a teddy, and his eyes lingered on the movement. “And, ah, don’t tell my landlord, but would you believe that rent is cheaper here?”

He laughed out loud at that, “Could you kindly remind my tenants of that, please? The way they complain, you’d think I was renting closets for the price of penthouses in New York.”

Oh, how easy it was to make her laugh in his turn! She reached out a hand and let herself lean against one of her tables, her fingers grazing something ruffled and lovely, and he held his breath. She’d stopped walking, and he did too, and he tried not to let his eyes look at the table they’d stopped at, tried not to get caught up in the delights lining its surface. But he failed, eyes darting out and catching the look of a beautiful silver number. He was about to comment on her flowers as a diversion when she chuckled.

“I will,” she said, “on one condition.”

“Oh?” he asked, catching the playful tone in her voice, staring in awe.

“Call me _Belle_ , please.” At that she reached forward and touched his hand, a move he would have swatted away immediately had it been anyone else. God, she was flirting.

She moved her hand away from his just as quickly as she’d held it, and instead reached down for the silver set that had caught his eye. She lifted it up and caressed it gently with her thumbs.

“And your name - may I have it?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. She already had it, didn’t she? Every online order was emblazoned with it, surely. It hung in front of him, that image of his computer screen and his mouse hovering over the _place order_ button, his name in his confirmation emails, his name across her packages when they arrived at his door.

“Don’t you know it?” he asked quietly.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore, but looking down, down where his hand had joined hers on the silver emblems on the panties she held.

This was it, his opportunity, his path. His opening with his favorite artist, his chance to connect on a more beautiful, intimate level.

There was a pause while her breath faltered before she finally spoke.

“Are you? Are you wearing - right now, are you - ?”

Yes, _yes,_ he was!

But something was pulling inside him, pulling his hand away, pulling his feet back.

“Am I wearing what?”

The words sounded hollow in his own ears. Flat, terse, cold. Denial, when they both knew the truth, knew it clear. And here he was, keeping it mucky, keeping it hidden.

Her smile fell, the rejection in her eyes stinging and strange.

“Wait, please - “

Why was she saying that? Oh, because he was turning to leave, leave her shop before that face of hers made him feel any more dead than he already felt. An abrupt end to their flirtatious conversation. Awkward and impolite, he turned and fled Belle, fled his humiliation in an attempt to leave it behind, but it stuck to his heels, stuck to his chest, left him gasping for breath by the time he reached home.

It spread from his lungs and into his hands, leaving him throwing objects about. A lamp to the floor, a tumbler to the fire. A sweep of his arm and his sideboard was effectively rid of his favorite trinkets. He sunk to the floor, broken glass and porcelain around him. His wool was littered with it, and somewhere beneath his wool, his black and peach token of Belle’s craftsmanship sobbed in anger at its own denial.

After long moments he stood, hands shaking, cane shaking, and he made his way to his office.

He brushed the broken bits of his beloved items from his pants, and sat in his chair, booted his computer on. Noted the comfort his panties still afforded him. He tried to forget his own tantrum, tried to remember Belle’s sweet smile before his abrupt actions asked her to stop wearing it. And oh that smile, how lovely it had been, right when he’d walked in, it had said something -

He didn’t quite understand what until his monitor glowed before him. Navigating to her site, he saw that she’d just introduced a new collection. Its title scrolled across the screen in what was obviously an image of her own handwriting.

_The Gold Collection._

His breath caught, his heart jumping in an emotion with which he was entirely unfamiliar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late because we're in the middle of a move! Thanks for your patience!


	4. Chapter 4

It had been made just to his taste.

She only had a handful of orders to go off of, but his preferences had been clear. A corset that would show that peek of nipple he liked, a beautifully stitched garter belt, a boybrief, a panty - there was a thong in the collection, though he wasn’t fond of those. A girdle, a robe - the new set even featured gloves, something he’d never thought of. Lovely sheer gold things that reached the elbow, fingers exposed except for a v that reached down and hooked around the middle finger. It made him think of a sorcerer.

The want fired up inside him again, the desire to sort, pick, decide, send in his measurements, place his order, await the beautiful package. His hands shook, one at the mouse, one at his tie, and his throat bobbed.

He was baffled, he was excited, he was perplexed, he was aroused. He was angry, embarrassed, heartened, warmed. She knew him, she saw him! Her lips spoke through the screen though she wasn’t there, no wisp of chestnut or delicate fingers, but she was behind him, on his shoulder, mouth at his temple.

_May I have your name?_

_Don’t you know it?_

His hand shook again, fingers braced too tight where he held the mouse, and he thought of _her_ name, her card. _The Loved One._

_You Are Loved._

He crawled out of his chair, moved to the floor with the grace of a snail. He brought his knees up, the one without the pain and the one with, his ankle protesting in time with his knee. But he needed this, a quiet huddle with himself. This was a nice corner of his office, dark, private, a circle of shadow he could hide in, his desk barring him from view of the door, the glow of the monitor lost somewhere above him where it could no longer be seen. He closed his eyes.

His home breathed around him, all the beauty he loved so much - statues, suits, ties, paintings. His vintage sofa, his standing phonograph with the preserved horn and brass arm, delicate on the turntable as it played records he never really listened to. All of his things breathed around him, still and quiet and there, as they always were, no real function except to please him.

None of his trinkets or baubles had actively sought his favor, actively tried to love him in return. But _The Loved One_ was reaching out to him, offering a collection in his own name.

He huddled deeper into his knees.

His mind, that part of him that could calculate and cultivate cunning - he let it take over, let it form a plan. Let it lay out before him until he was nodding in midair at his own conclusion.

It took him a day or two. Courage was well and good when he hated someone, but love . . . that was something else altogether.

The first step was his closet, the first step was a corset. The green one, yes.

He could manage the corset. He could. He really could. It was difficult, but he could do it. If he had help, though, the proper help of a pair of slim, pale hands dotted in deep red at the end, and the encouragement of a silky Australian lilt, the process would perhaps be a little easier, and the results far more fine.

He would ask her, he decided. He would go in and ask for her assistance. Surely she helped customers in her fitting room - did she have a fitting room?

In his closet, his suits and ties led a path to the lingerie he had purchased tucked away at the other end. He kept each set in its respective box, packaged the same way they’d been sent. Ribbons in place, card in place, sets always delicately placed back when he was done wearing them. The boxes were stacked neatly, and he forward to retrieve the first, the one with his green endeavor, and lifted the corset and panty set out with care.

He placed his plan in his briefcase, mindful to arrange it the way she would a corset in one of her lovely packages. It wasn’t the same, but it would remain safe, and it would do. Next, he returned to his computer, and finally allowed himself to indulge in her new collection, tailor-made just for him. Despite the coil in his stomach that tightened over the planning of his grand scheme, he let out a sigh of pleasure at the enjoyment this simple act brought him - browsing her site, choosing his favorites.

He wasn’t one to stray from a true classic. He ordered his usual; a panty and corset, a garter belt, stockings - and the matching gloves, because he could. He added it all to his cart, the clicks assuring, the surveying of his contents bringing an unconscious smile to his face, but now to implement the true plan.

In the order comments he wrote, typing carefully -

_Do not deliver. Will pick up in person._

He swallowed, and placed his order.

In his hands he rubbed that part of her set he didn’t pack - the panties - those he was able to put on himself just fine. He worried, though. They were more delicate than the black and peach pair, more easy to scuff and ruin. But under his clothes they would go, tucked safe against his skin and cock and testicles and rear for the courage he needed (and the reminder!) that this was something she would not mock him for, would not laugh. She felt the same he did, here, he was sure - she loved this beauty the same way he did, she created it.

He chose the afternoon.

It felt sneaky, flipping her closed sign after he walked in. She had no patrons about that he could see, and the only sounds were the tinkling music against the twinkling lights as he entered. Her rose scent nearly overwhelmed him.

She wasn’t at her counter the way she usually was, but towards the back, near a small chair and pouf that one couldn’t actually sit in because she’d adorned them with garments. She was on a ladder adjusting a girdle with a matching boybrief hung in midair, and _yes,_ he could see it so clearly now, that pouch meant to hug a penis. This was a set he could wear.

 _Miss French!_ He almost called, but he remembered her request.

“Belle,” he said.

“Oh!” she cried, startled, and nearly tumbled from her ladder. He held out a hand, and she caught it automatically, steadying herself while her face grew red from his sudden appearance. She looked not just down at him but at his suit, his personal favorite, the dark grey with the purple shirt and blue tie - all deep colors, all as deep as the way his eyes were set now as he looked at her.

A few needles and string fell from where they’d been placed in her mouth, and she seemed entirely unaware of their loss. Her lips twitched, wanting to smile, but she couldn’t quite manage it, the way her eyebrows were so furrowed in worry.

“I am, Belle.”

Her eyebrows rose, and he helped her down from the ladder.

“You are . . . ?” she said, stepping toe to toe with him.

“I’m - ”

“I’m sorry!” she blurted.

“Sorry?” he said.

“For asking you like that. For trying to . . . out you like that. It was rash of me, and pushing too much, too far, and - ”

“Belle - ” he said.

“And that’s your private business, even if we _do_ business together, designer and customer, it’s still something that’s obviously very private to you, and I shouldn’t have, I was just so excited to - ”

“Belle - ” he said.

“You must be so very angry. I got your latest order, and, oh! I wanted you to love the collection, I did, so much, but then I was terrified you’d think I was trying to out you again, but it was meant to be a private hello, you see? A way to tell you that I - well - and then I got your order, with the request that - “

 _“Belle_ ,” he nearly hissed in a laugh.

“Yes? Sorry, I’m talking over you, I’m so sorry. Yes, yes?” and she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, calm her breathing and that red in her face bloomed brilliantly and trailed down her neck to her chest and it was so beautiful, falling into her sweetheart neckline and how far did it go? He grew the courage to grasp her shoulders, try to ground her the way she’d grounded him before.

“I’m,” and his words weren’t nearly as fast as hers, “I’m . . . wearing . . . . them.”

“Them?” she asked.

“Yes. You asked if I was wearing . . . and I am.”

“Them?” she asked again, in a slow breath this time, and the way her smile alighted, she finally knew.

He could forgive her directly, or correct her thinking by informing her he wasn’t _mad_ , not really, just terrified, but this seemed to be the path that would clear all.

“Your panties, Belle. That you made, for me. That I ordered. I’m wearing them.”

“You are,” she said, and her eyes positively glowed, her smile as warm as the hand she’d placed upon his chest.

He rubbed his thumbs in conclusion where they held her shoulders, and finally drew back. She drew back too, but her smile remained, as did the red in her face. Her hand reached up to clutch at her stomach as though a pain was finally easing and he ran his hands over his cane in a similar manner.

“But I was wondering,” he said, and a pause to swallow was necessary, “Belle . . . I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to . . . well, you see, I can’t, by myself . . . “

The words in his head were smooth and correct, just as when he’d be measured for a suit. There was no trembling, no stumbling, but an exact evenness to his voice that laid out his instructions carefully and with little room for misinterpretation. He thought he could call upon that voice, but this fumbling was falling out instead. He would have to rely on another body part to tame his tongue - his eyes, yes, he brought them up to hers in a direct stare, making the eye contact that would give him the control he needed. There, there it was, confidence in her blue, he could speak now -

“Would you lace me in?”

“Lace you - ?” and her blue blinked back at his brown until his meaning was clear, and she looked down to his hands, where he’d clicked open his briefcase. Inside she could see her darling returned, the first sweetheart she’d labored over for him. The corset he’d ordered, the first, the forest green with the embroidered sage scallops. Her smile was one of relief, wide and aching, and she closed her eyes briefly.

“I’d love to.”

She directed him to her fitting room, (she did have one!) silently, wistfully. Side by side they walked, passing her lovely concoctions and creations, and his chest began to bloom. He was about to indulge in latest favorite endeavor, right with the woman who gave it to him. The afternoon suddenly felt golden and full of possibility.

The room was small and tucked away, and in front there was the typical set of three mirrors with a stand for her to take proper measurements and adjustments. A screen heavily covered in vines shielded the rest of the shop from the area, and the lighting was more proper here, bright to encourage accuracy and efficiency, and he found he preferred her copper lights.

Or perhaps he didn’t - he’d come here, after all, hadn’t he? Perhaps he was ready for the big lights to shine on him, to illuminate this thing he loved, this thing he shared only with Belle. The lights could shine on them, he decided, as long they shone on them only.

“You can change in here, and then come out when you’re ready,” she said.

“Lennon.”

And her face bloomed red again, and she paused with her hands up.

“Yes,” he said, “you may have my name, Belle.”

“You already gave it me,” she said, folding her arms down, looking up at him through her lashes, and a small, sweet smile. “When you placed your first order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me on this silly story. It was done and finished as something small and quick to post, but I've gone back in and added a bit . . . even though we're in the middle of finishing our big move and unpacking . . . so, uh, adding more might have made it a bit more scattered, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ A few more chapters on the way, and smut of course :)


	5. Chapter 5

Belle stood atop the fitting platform, her back facing the mirrors, _one two three_ of them, the same mirrors Gold had faced just moments earlier. Her back reflected, _one two three_ of her, six hands trembling where they held a set of stockings, the ones he’d tried on to match his forest green corset and panties. She’d be adding sage ribbon to these tonight, along the bands at the thighs. His thighs.

Her hands were shaking, and her smile was so broad it hurt, but she couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes and they tempted to spill out a tear or two, but when she blinked again with a giggle they managed to stay dry. Six eyes dry, six hands folding the stockings over her stomach.

_We could make this . . . recurring, if you’d like._

_A weekly appointment?_

_Yes. Gold in the afternoon._

She had smiled goofily at her own joke, but his eyes had flickered with something smiling and pleasurable, eager and ready. He nodded, and their agreement settled around them in warm anticipation for the things to come as he left her shop.

What a muse he was, she could hardly stand it without her lips parting and her tongue going thick and dry. She had offered him these pair of black stockings with their plain black band along the top, no lace or other details. He’d sat, with the care of his cane, atop the fitting platform, running the stretch of black up his legs, and when he rose -

Oh, God.

He was beautiful.

The stockings elongated him. He was all legs, tall and stark and harsh in the best way, every line meeting just where it should. She was all nerves, mouth unable to open for the dark figure in front of her.

Her mouth opened now in remembrance, in the comfort of her solitude where she could raise the stockings to her nose and breath in, and she ran her fingers along the bands in suspense of where the sage ribbon would soon lay.

Across town, Gold ran his fingers down the boning of his corset.

He sat in his vintage sofa, the leather cool against what patches of skin were exposed between his lace and silk. Sitting alone in his living room while wearing lingerie might have painted a sad picture on paper, but with his memory of the afternoon to act as his companion, the scene wasn’t quite so lonesome.

He closed his eyes, the rims not so dry, and remembered.

He could see her behind him again, in the mirror, feel her warmth at his back. This indulgence of lingerie had always been spent alone, and while the thought of having someone indulge with him was thrilling, being with the artist herself had been another treat altogether. It had left him glowing, and when he’d looked at her face in the mirror, yes, there it was, that same glow, that same smile.

When he’d stepped out from behind her curtain, it had been tempting to simply have the corset up top, trousers below. But it had looked so strange and out of place. A mish mash puzzle of the man he was, and if anyone was going to see him in his panties, it was going to be the woman who had made them for him.

So he’d stepped out in his green and sage, panties and corset. Loosely laced, legs exposed, cock and testicles and rear cupped lovingly. The urge to cover himself had been nearly overwhelming, but the way her eyes had swept over him when he emerged, oh! The memory, sharp and good, wet his eyes again.

Her lips had been open in the motion of speaking, but he heard no words and he saw only her tongue. Pink thing clicking in uncertainty, throat bobbing in a swallow, a quick contraction of her throat. The whole thing lasted only a second, and she recovered quickly with a hand held out, motioning him to the fitting platform and its mirrors. But he had felt power, then, like he’d cast a spell on her, simple but effective.

With his corset on and the cord laced loosely, he had stood before her, ready for adjustment. At home he had to twist and turn to get the cord tightened just so, but never really to a perfect fit. Yet when she got behind him, grasping the laces, holding them like reins . . . God, she could lead him anywhere, but she didn’t know that.

She’d tugged. And that feeling of the corset tightening around him, he could remember! Could feel it now, in his ribcage! An embrace, a welcome, it had been perfect. Hugging and hugging him, taking form and growing attractive, from a loose set of panels surrounding him to a defined casing. The corset had created lovely lines in his chest and waist, in ways his suits had never done!

He touched his chest, his green, and remembered.

The top of the corset rest just below his nipples. He loved the look. He’d worried that once properly tightened the corset would rise and cover his nipples, but they had been exposed just as he liked them. She had worked silently, efficiently. He’d felt her knotting and securing the ties below his shoulder blades, and then there it was, his request of her complete.

The lines from corset down to panty were so, so beautiful. The dip in his waist was subtle but there, widening just right at his hips. The shape of the corset left peeks of flesh exposed at either side of his hips, but dipped like a diamond near his crotch, pointing like an arrow to that erotic part of him.

"You're so beautiful," Belle had said, standing behind him, in such awe he’d wondered for a moment if her eyes were misting. God, no one had ever said that to him before.

Her smile, in the mirror, he remembered it well - it hadn’t been one of knowing or suggestion, but rather, pride. She’d been bursting with it. It made sense to him now, the way her smile had beamed though her eyes had been bashful. His gleeful consumption of her work humbled her, in a way, hadn’t it? What a feeling it must be - to create, and know that one received such happiness from your creation! He could taste it, knew its similarities - he was the one who’d first declared joy for her work, after all. Not by saying it out loud, but by buying, and buying, and buying. He didn’t know if he’d ever have enough of her work.

“It’s beautiful,” he’d breathed. “But I wish, you see, here, if it would come up just an inch - ”

“Oh!” Belle cried. “Yes, yes, I can alter that. Whatever you like.”

And he’d smiled, satisfaction curling inside him. Like his suits, when he directed the tailor to tighten this, hem that - it was a powerful feeling, taking control of one’s beauty. But this was deeper, more magnified. Her hands had been on his skin, on his shoulders, and when the opportunity came he had reached for her - his hand over hers, and the look in her eyes as he’d done so seemed to reflect his, yes!

“I’m glad you’re here,” she’d said. “I was worried I’d quite shocked you, that first time I suggested you try on a pair . . . when you first came to my shop.”

“You did,” he’d smiled.

Her lashes had hidden her eyes as she looked down, and he remembered her next words very distinctly.

“Your, your order. With your special instructions. It won’t be ready for about two weeks, but, well, we could have a standing appointment. I like measuring you in person. We could. We could make this . . . recurring, if you’d like.

“A weekly appointment?”

“Yes. Gold in the afternoon,” and she’d smiled, silly and sweet, and it made something clench in his jaw and gut.

He’d smiled and nodded, that satisfaction curling deeper, a great excitement budding. “I would like that.”

With a final tug of the laces, she’d rest her hands at his back.“How does it feel? Is it tight enough - good?”

They’d nodded together, and he’d watched her in the mirror again, her eyes trailing down his form until they landed on his leg, blinking at the subtle scar tissue there.

“Good,” he’d said. “Very good. Do you - do you have, perhaps, matching stockings, or the like?”

He rubbed his leg now at the memory. She’d said nothing to direct their conversation to his leg, his scars. Just smiled an emphatic “Yes! Yes! Perhaps something black - and along the top, I could add, yes, sage ribbon?”

“Yes,” he’d said, and simple as that, she was _his_ artist now, art made with him in mind, his specific interests to cater, and it was such a heady feeling. It was selfish, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. At home, now, on his sofa, in his lingerie, her secured knots lovely at his back, her handy work along his spine.

His _._

Back across town, Belle savored the same word. _His_. His thighs, his stomach, his back, his cock. She ran the black band of his stockings through her fingers, over and over, thumb and forefinger, staking a claim over the black, her customer, her client, her Gold, her Lennon.

Hers.

“Belle,” Gold said, quiet on his sofa, one hand over the boning, the other at the band of his panties.

“Lennon,” Belle said, fingers giving a gentle twist to his stockings, their band at her mouth.

Both closed their eyes. Both sighed, breath shared across town with their minds lost somewhere in silk and lace.

Gold’s eyes opened, blinking in confusion as he was pulled from the sigh, his phone ringing in the distance.

Belle’s eyes opened, a connection closed and she savored its final wisps.

Gold rose from his sofa, muscles loose and languid as he moved with slow drifts to his phone on the console table in the entryway. _Jefferson_ . He answered with a slide of his thumb, but kept the phone down and anchored in his palm, Jefferson’s _hellos?_ reaching nothing and Gold had no desire to bring them to his ear. He hung up the call, rest the phone back on the table. He felt heavy, very heavy, and blinked, wondering how he’d gotten in the hallway when the sofa had been so pleasant.

The ringing was over but a noise continued, a banging, and he realized Jefferson was at his front door, peering through his stained glass windows and calling his name.

Gold was thinking and he wasn’t. His thoughts were lost enough that he answered the door, but collected enough that he put on his wool trench coat before opening.

Jefferson stood before him, phone still alight in one hand and a toothy grin on his face though he’d just been hung up on.

“You sure know how to keep a date waiting, Gold. Are we going to go over the Hades order or what?”

“The Hades . . . ? Since when do we go over orders at _my home_?”

“When you’re not at your shop like you said you’d be. Or when you’re not answering your phone. Or when you are answering, but not, you know, answering,” Jefferson said, then, sputtering on his own words, “are you - _uhm_ \- are you wearing women’s knickers?”

The color drained from Gold’s face. All that beauty he carried with him from the afternoon dissipated at Jefferson’s words, sunk below him into the floorboards and puddled somewhere into the ground. He looked down and, _fuck_ , he hadn’t tied off or buttoned his coat up.

If this was Killian or Leroy or blasted _David_ he could handle this, but his friend, his friend of aesthetics, his friend of fashion, his friend of the heart - black though it was, surely that meant something? - this he couldn’t handle.

He swallowed, straightened, turned to face him. “I’m wearing _my_ knickers,” he corrected gently.

Jefferson looked at his friend, gaping slightly.

“My apologies,” he said, after a long pause. Then, after another long, bated pause:

“Are you fond of hats, as well? Because I know the most _lovely_ place in Boston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that a St. Vincent Easter egg you spotted? Yes, yes it was.


	6. Chapter 6

“Now, don’t go thinking I’m going to miss the connection of this sudden new _look_ for you with that lovely new shop. Run by, I might add, a lovely, lovely shopkeeper. The two seem to go hand in hand.”

Gold turned away, tightened his coat around his waist and headed towards his office. Jefferson followed in tow, and Gold tried very hard not to worry about his bare feet and exposed legs.

“So . . . you and the lingerie shop owner, yeah?” Jefferson said.

Gold opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and kept walking.

Once properly settled in his office, Jeff studied him openly, then pointed a finger at his chest. “You doing this for her or for you?”

Gold leveled him a look that seemed answer enough.

“All right, all right. But you _do_ like her? And she likes you?”

He swiveled in his chair, busying himself with his filing cabinet rather than a response.

“You _dog_ ,” Jefferson said behind him, like it was the very best of compliments.

Gold bit his mouth, refusing a smile, sifting through his documents until the right folder was found.

“I work with her, you know,” Jeff mused. “Splendid woman. And such a petite thing, just your size, I’d say! Though I must admit, I didn’t really take you for . . . the type. For her, or,”

Gold turned around in time to see Jefferson gesturing vaguely to his wool coat.

“Are you here for the Hades account or not?” he snapped.

“I am, I am. Just. Hmm. Her shop name, eh? _The Loved One_. Seems she preemptively had you in mind, you think? Are you two - or have you - ?”

Gold slapped the folder on the desk before Jefferson had the chance to waggle his brows.

Jefferson took the folder obligingly, choosing to ignore the way it hit the table in annoyance. He browsed the folder, flipping through it and Gold was positive Jefferson wasn’t really reading anything. The way his eyes skimmed the page didn’t seem to register numbers at all, and though Jefferson was a wonder with his products, he was no whiz at numbers. The man needed a moment or two to read and reread everything carefully, often counting with his lips in silent murmur.

No murmur was happening, no rereading.

Gold chewed on his lip, and considered his position with his friend carefully. Who else could he possibly confide in?

“You . . . you work with her?” he asked, steady as he could.

Some more pretend-reading happened on Jefferson’s part, and the twitching of a prevented smile. “Arrange fabric orders for her. I know the most lovely place in -”

“Boston, I know,” Gold said. “Fabrics for her, for her . . . _l-lingerie_ \- ” God, why did he have to stumble on the word!

“For what you’ve probably got on, now,” Jeff said, that smile finally landing, and Gold did his best not to look at it.

Gold steepled his hands together, rest them against his chin. “How long have you two been . . . ?”

“Ordering fabrics? A few years . . . I recommended your shop space to her. Even snuck her in to check it out before she ever made her call to you.”

“ . . . _what do you mean you snuck her into? -_ ”

“And let me tell you, Gold, she absolutely, positively _loved_ it upon first sight! Knew right away that it had to be hers.”

Gold’s brows furrowed and he gaped at Jefferson, but the man merely smiled in return.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Jeff said, back to his pretend-reading of the folder.

The rest of the meeting went as it should, no more talk of Belle or _The Loved One_. Gold kept his coat secured around him, Jefferson made no more mention of fabrics or _lovely Boston_ or sneaking pretty, petite shop owners into spaces he rented out.

Upon leaving, though, Jeff turned around at the threshold and, for once in his life, seemed sheepish.

“Your secret is safe with me, Gold. I understand, more than most, a desire to keep one’s . . . _joy_ . . . a private thing. This is Storybrooke, after all.”

There were a myriad of things Jeff could mean, Gold thought, narrowing his eyebrows. None that came to mind were anything he would think less of his friend for.

Friend, his mind said. My friend.

Gold nodded at Jeff, paused, then nodded again.

“And,” Jeff continued, “in case I forgot to mention . . . now that I see it, I think she’s very clearly your type. And you’re very clearly her type, too.”

Gold bit the inside of his cheeks while Jefferson offered a smile. The man tipped an imaginary hat towards him, turned, and left.

His friend.

The notion made him wish he’d said more, offered more. But all he could do was slouch against the side of his doorframe, tug at his wool coat, and watch his friend walk off with a bounce in his step. Closing the door, he removed his coat, hung it back up, and thought of the evening’s proceedings. They didn’t taste nearly as bad as the scowl he’d tried to wear the whole evening, they weren’t nearly as terrible as their summary suggested:

_Jefferson stops by to catch you in your lingerie and then pester you all night about the woman who made it for you._

On paper, it all seemed very terrible and terrifying indeed. A novel he would refuse to read. But in person, in person it hadn’t been so bad.

Not at all.

He decided, from then on, he’d answer all of Jeff’s calls when they came. And maybe even seek to share this thing he had, and find out what _joy_ left a man like Jeff feeling the need to hide and enjoy himself in private.

The hour was late. Gold’s musings had left him unaware of the setting sun, the chiming of the clock. He grabbed his cane and, tallying all that had happened to him that day, trudged up to bed. His lingerie, still pleasant about his frame, would not be so pleasant when it was time to sleep. Begrudgingly, he prepared himself for bed.

Undoing Belle’s cords felt cruel, like an undoing of the whole pleasant afternoon he’d spent at her shop, and the pleasant memories he was able to relive that same evening prior to Jeff’s arrival. Removing the corset from himself, loosening the panels enough so they could slide down his torso, down his hips, and pool at the floor, he wished she were there to help unlace him.

It had felt so good to have her lace him in, it was only right that she be there to lace him out. That image, of being put in and out of this world she’d given him, hung in front of him as he folded and placed his lingerie back into its proper box. He wanted _in_ again, he wanted in all the time.

And damn the man, Jeff’s words stuck with him. The bizarre compliments, the assumptions. The conclusions Gold never confirmed.

_You’re very clearly her type, too._

Yes, Jeff had made silly assumptions.

But Gold tossed and turned in his bed that night, those assumptions swirling around, tottering on his nightstand, slinking under his pillow. Leaking from his closet where each handwritten note sat alongside his beloved pieces from her shop. _You Are Loved, You Are Loved, You Are Loved._

Love was what he felt, surely. When alone in his room with her creations adorning his body, when in her presence trying very hard not to move in close and touch her, smell her hair - try his very best not to burst at the seams screaming of her creations, the beauty she’d given him - to keep his gestures simple, no stomping or yelling but the nod of a head, the crook of a smile. _Good day to you, Miss French, how’s business_ ? when he’d like to say _You have made me fall in love when I didn’t think I could._

He woke up in a fit, eyes bulging and breath ragged.

He threw off his covers and rose, aimless and nowhere about his room, about his bed, pacing and reaching up to rub his chest, wring his pajamas - but he wasn’t wearing any.

Had he gone to bed naked? Had he forgotten to dress? Had his meeting with Jeff, had those _assumptions_ truly thrown him?

Gold’s hands grabbed at nothing but himself, and he could not think of a time when he’d gone to bed nude. He hadn’t enjoyed his body enough to do so, but he did now. He’d slipped into sheets unaccompanied by partner fabric, no companion sheets around legs, arms, or torso.

Looking down, he saw that he had an erection. He didn’t feel that strange heady accompaniment of arousal, though, just thoughts of Belle - and that alien realization he’d made about her, and her creations for him.

That word, _love_. It had bombarded him!

Damn Jeff!

Years ago, eons ago, he thought of lingerie as overtly sexual, its purpose meant to tantalize before one engaged in lusty, physical acts. But he hadn’t thought of that, not directly, since pursuing this venture. He’d been enticed by Belle, charmed, had even gotten an erection before, but he hadn’t . . . he hadn’t thought . . .

_Her shop name, eh?_

Was this - ? Was he really in - ?

He stepped towards his window, and looked up at the moon. And, keeping his face towards the pale, pale light looking back at him, he reached down, and touched himself.

It was easy to look at the moon and see Belle. The moon was Belle, really, that bright orb above him, that beauty. And sex, that physical act that could be used for connection, for _love_ , he felt its strings now, connected somewhere between the closet where his lingerie lay and his hand where it gripped his cock. And as the strings moved between his fingers where they stroked, and where his eyes lay against that moon that so resembled Belle, he felt a kind of peace he didn’t know he could reach, touch.

These thoughts had always been there, brimming below. When he first stepped into her shop, he was bombarded with the surprise of soft colors throughout her shop; the navy, the forest green, the oxblood, the lavender, the mint - but those weren’t the colors that stayed with him as he walked home, as her card hid safe and secret in his pocket. It was the dusty pink, and the thought of her lips, her nipples, that stayed with him. That color was with him now, matching the tip of his cock when it’d peep through the movement of his hands.

The moon, pale, Belle’s skin. The dusty pink, her lips. His cock.

It didn’t take long for the moon of Belle to burst into stars behind his eyes.

His breathing slowed, and he looked down. Oh, God, what had he done?

He blinked, feeling silly suddenly. He’d taken this moment of inspiration and beauty and soiled it, quite literally, across his palms. But he didn’t feel filthy or dirty for his act, he felt the _release_ it had brought, and his eyes no longer bulged, and his breath was still ragged, but for a different reason entirely.

He laughed, now, laughed at himself and the way he’d reacted with shaking hand and leaking cock to the thought of _love_ . It was a terrifying notion, frightening, but he could wrangle it into something simple, surely. His _good afternoons_ with her could shift, slowly, he decided, until they were ready to become _I love yous_. Simple transitions, from _would you like to go to coffee?_ to _would you like to go to dinner?_ could eventually, quietly lead to _would you like to stay the night?_ And from there, perhaps love would come. Perhaps, if he could show her pleasure with his body, the way she’d given him beauty for his body, perhaps, perhaps,

Or perhaps he’d already started the transitions. _Would you like to lace me in_? was as lovely a transition as he’d ever had, now wasn’t it?

He turned, stared at his bedroom, and the door where it lay open to the hallway. To his nice things, beautiful things. The ones he’d collected over the years and the ones he’d replaced after his fit.

Belle was shaking, he thought, the last time she’d measured him. None of his trinkets had ever trembled for him. None of them shook!

He blinked at the notion, smiled. And with the back of his palms wiped his face from the relief that had bled from his eyes. Little clear drops, the blood of emotion, seeping from the pores of his lashes - all these things he felt. He laughed, wiped again, and laughed some more.

Going to bed again was easier, after that. And he didn’t bother to put on pajamas.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a million years, because I've been a big depression lump lately. All lumps aside, enjoy!

It was finally here. Thursday, 3 o’clock. Time for his weekly appointment.

Closing up his shop in favor of hers was a funny little transition. His shop, kept meticulously clean, was nevertheless dusty with the agitations and interactions of the day. His shop, intricately ordered and balanced, was cluttered with each spot where he’d stood with furrowed brow to announce, _no_ , he couldn’t possibly accept so low an offer, _no_ , he couldn’t possibly extend another deadline, _no_ , I can’t possibly alter what’s been so clearly laid out in your contract.

Out of his dusty and cluttered shop and on to her airy, sunlit haven, his lungs could be freed of the tediousness of his days. He looked forward to this every week, looked forward to undressing for her, her hands upon his shoulders, her palms upon his legs.

He turned off his lights, dropped his blinds, flipped his closed sign. The small rituals felt good. He glanced in his shop mirror, adjusted his tie, adjusted his pocket square, smoothed his hair, smoothed his smile. Would she like the pinstripe suit he wore today? With the panties he’d paired underneath?

The way he fell in love with suits was the way he fell in love with lingerie.

_Busks, boning, girdles. Panels, hooks, wings._

He’d indulged in his weekly appointment for over a month now. Thursday after Thursday, it had replaced his online browsing. Well, not entirely, as the many tabs on his computer could attest. Belle was his personal overseer, making suggestions and often having something ready for him to try on the moment he arrived. They’d started work on his pieces from the Gold Collection. She’d lock the door, and tuck them away at her fitting platform where he would blossom while she pruned him to perfection.

_Netting, straps, underwires. Cheeky, tanga, brief!_

He developed his own taste. He wasn’t fond of flow, no camisoles or babydolls, preferring hug and grip instead. He favored separate pieces that allowed a peek of his taut belly, no teddies or bodysuits, though he found he was partial to the look of a girdle overlapping the band of his panties. On his panties he was specific - thongs and tangas no, cheekies and hip huggers yes. He was terribly fond of corsets, but terribly put off by bustiers.

_Hip hugger, french cut, thong. Hook and eye, clasp, gore. Bands, garter belts, stockings._

His vocabulary was filling slowly, slowly, his mind filling up with flashcard memories for each bit he so loved. But he didn't have it all, not yet. Bra cups still eluded him.

“Tell me the names,” he’d asked at his last appointment.

And she had smiled, thumbing the lace of a lovely lavender number. “I thought you didn’t like to wear bras.”

He didn’t. He found the look odd on himself if it cupped nothing. Besides, it wasn’t him he pictured when admiring these particular garments, especially when Belle stood so near, but he kept such nonsense to himself.

She’d handed him the lavender bra, its cups arching low towards the straps rather than up. “Balconette,” she’d said.

“Balconette,” he’d repeated softly, running his fingers over the edges, then gently cupping the bra with his palm, which had made Belle lick her lips.

“Plunge,” she’d said, passing him another bra, this one with the cups arched and angled, and a wire dipped low in the center. “To push the breasts together for more outstanding cleavage. Similar to push-up, which simply - ”

“Pushes up,” he’d smiled.

“Yes,” she’d smiled in return, then, handing him another. “Bralette.”

Oh, this one he knew. No underwire, no padding. Some were opaque with lace, but the one she’d handed him was sheer, completely sheer. “My favorite,” he’d said, fingers running over where nipples would be when worn.

I’m in love, he thought.

The day was crisp and the sky was tawny, and it was all he could do to maintain a straight face as he and his cane tapped their way over to _The Loved One_. His suit eager to come off, his lingerie eager to breathe. His belly twinged in anticipation, both the one in his gut and the skin atop ready for exposure.

When he entered her shop, with its copper lights and its soft music, he liked to turn her _open_ sign to _closed_. He’d wait, of course, until she saw him enter, and walk over to him, before he’d commence with this daring act. One that would secure their privacy. He did it slow, waiting to see if it would falter her smile, but with each appointment it had only made her grin grow.

He entered _The Loved One_ , its lights signaling his arrival, and he readied himself for the bright “hello!” that greeted him every Thursday. It didn’t come, he didn’t see her, where was she? His hand itched for the closed sign but a scan of his eyes did not immediately bring her up, so he kept his hand still. He heard unfamiliar laughter, and a rock formed in his stomach.

There, towards the back, Belle stood, hands clasped tight and white fingers kneading. A group of girls, loud and happy, were hidden behind the privacy wall in her fitting area. He could hear them, how many? Who?

“Try the red, Mary,” a girl said.

“That’s not really my color. And I just want something traditional, white. Um, do you have . . . ?”

“Of course!” Belle said, those same warm tones she used with him, somewhat the same, maybe, not quite. “And I can customize anything to your liking.”

The girls carried on while Belle turned to scan the shop. A bridal party it seemed, intent on helping their friend choose something exciting for her upcoming wedding night. Gold knew each voice; the Lucas girl, Boyd, Swan. The bride-to-be, Mary Margaret, scandalously marrying the man whose previous marriage she’d broken up - Gold would not judge, however, himself a divorced and lonely man, whose heart currently beat for the shop owner wringing her hands.

The door closed behind Gold before he had the chance to dart out. He held his cane up, unsure of what to do, feeling stupid and exposed. Of course she had other customers, of course she had other people who loved and appreciated her art. She had spoken before of other clients, of events she’d host that allowed friends to get together and try on her wares while enjoying champagne and gossip. She had made it all sound so lovely, so enchanting. Encountering one now, he felt like an interruption, unwelcome, uninvited.

“Get the red _and_ something white. You’re supposed to have a, uh, what’s it called? Trousseau?”

“That’s, like, your full outfits, though. Not just lingerie. I think.”

“Everyone, I have an announcement: my glass is empty.”

“How many have you _had_ , Ruby?”

Belle returned to the group, disappearing behind the privacy wall to deliver Mary Margaret a beautiful white selection bordered under the bust with dark roses. The bride made a noise of delight, seconded by the girls around her in squeals and aahs.

Gold idly wondered if, when she made her final selections, would he and Mary Margaret own the same pair of lingerie? The thought swallowed poorly down his throat.

Belle appeared again from behind the wall, looking up to check the clock, biting her lip, wringing her hands again. He could see red creeping up her neck. When she tilted her head to finally see him at the door, he wished he’d just escaped, wished he hadn’t grown dumb and frozen in his eavesdropping.

A small gasp escaped Belle at the sight of him. The girls heard her intake, and all but Mary Margaret turned to peek around the privacy wall to see him standing there.

“Holy shit,” Ruby cursed. “ _Mr. Gold_ is here!”

“What’s he-?”

“It’s not rent day. Oh, fuck, is it?”

Their clamor disappeared behind the privacy wall once more, where he assumed Mary Margaret was now dashing quickly back into the fitting room. Belle excused herself from their party and walked towards him, where he reluctantly met her at the counter.

She rubbed her neck, that red creeping higher. “I haven’t forgotten our appointment,” she said, quiet and rushed.

Goodness, he knew that. Her wringing hands and clock checking had told him enough.

“Their appointment was at noon, they were only supposed to be here an hour,” she continued, quiet murmur, “I’m so sorry, they’ve been enjoying themselves so much, and they’re nearly wrapped up . . . ”

“I understand,” he said softly.

“I can,” she said, “I could ask them to -”

“What? No, Belle. Don’t kick them out on my behalf.”

She smiled though her brow furrowed, her own little clutter.

“I could merely, well, encourage them along . . .” she said.

“No, no,” he repeated. “If their time with you is anywhere near like my time with you, I won’t take that away from them.”

She smiled, though her eyes narrowed. “Our time together is . . . quite different. Very different. Than the time I’m giving them. They’re . . . they’re not alike at all.”

“Hey, Belle?” a voice called from behind the wall.

“Yes,” Belle called after the voice. “Coming,” she said. And she turned away, her heels making an anxious clack along the floor as she went to attend to the bridal party, and something hollow and strange had started to open up inside Gold.

Gold felt silly. This was a lovely event, a cloud of joy and excitement that Belle had curated just for them, it had nothing to do with him, he was merely a dark shadow plaguing its edges, and he really just needed to leave.

Belle reappeared from behind the privacy wall with her inquisitor, Miss Emma Swan, who held a bundle of garments in her arms. I’d hold those with a little more reverence if I were you, he thought. Swan glanced across him briefly, a funny expression on her face.

Emma started asking something about alterations, time frame, pricing, and Belle answered, but it was all a buzz in his head as he stood there feeling thinner and thinner. The air around him was so heavy, his suit was the only thing holding him up. His shop popped into his mind, its fingers beckoning him back, and he nodded at the imaginary summons, turning to leave.

“Yes, I can arrange for -  wait - ” Belle said, grasping his hand suddenly, and he nearly jumped. He was so wrapped up in himself, he hadn’t heard the follow of her heels, and that self-absorption was its own embarrassment. A blush threatened to creep up his own neck as he saw Miss Swan behind her, tagging after awkwardly. He assumed a stony mask.

Swan eyed his hand where Belle had grabbed it, that funny expression growing funnier.

“Wait,” Belle said again, and her thumb made a round of his knuckles, and he nearly let the mask he wore for Swan slip.  

Belle angled her face so it was out of way of Swan, only for him. She reached back to her counter, grabbed a stray bit of paper, and quickly scribbled a note. She folded it in half, placed it in a black envelope, and handed it to Gold with the same officiality as any proper document. She smiled at him, back straight and professional, and he accepted her envelope with a nod.

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gold.”

The phrase was meant more for Miss Swan than him, and the hand that held his ended their sweet touch in a goofy but firm handshake. Belle winced at her own strangeness before letting him go, but he understood.

He said nothing, nodded a second time, and turned to leave. The laughter of the girls erupted once more, and he heard Belle answering whatever other questions Miss Swan had, and with the swift exit of her shop, he closed it all behind him. Their joyous cloud, stuffed back into the shop where it belonged, no longer taunting him with its existence at 3 o’clock on a Thursday. He had a new little joy, waiting, burning, black and sleek, quickly scribbled, quiet in his pocket.

He rounded the brick building, feeling an alien though he owned this whole block. In the empty of the alley, he pulled out Belle’s envelope, her half folded note.

 _Please_ , it started.

_Come back at 6 pm. I have a surprise for you._

Then, towards the bottom,

_I love your pinstripes_

He smiled, wide and stupid, and pressed her note to those very pinstripes.


	8. Chapter 8

Her shop was ready to swallow him whole.

He could see its mouth ahead, and he was eager to be gobbled. The hour was a little later, the sun dipped a little lower, and all thoughts of feeling an intruder or left out were eased away with the black envelope in his pocket.

6 o’clock was not 3 o’clock, and as such he had to rearrange other parts of his schedule to accommodate the change. But it was one he readily cleared his calendar for, a big sweep of his arm to make way for the time he enjoyed with Belle.

Our time is quite different, she’d said. Very different.

The clack of his cane led him to _The Loved One_  once more, it’s closed sign already secured, he could see. And up above, in the small apartment she used as her living space -  he saw her now, on the narrow balcony above her shop’s awning, tending to a small garden of yellow and white and green spilling from terra cotta pots.

He stopped and stared, a silly man admiring his favorite painting.

She waved, he waved back. She disappeared inside and by the time he’d reached that greedy mouth, she was opening it wide with a smile and a welcome.

“Lennon,” she said.

“Belle,” he said.

And the door closed behind him, and he was finally swallowed.

She led him to the fitting room, back to where the girls had spent an unspoiled afternoon with Belle’s whimsy and design. It was his turn now, that joviality was all his to wrap up in, and he couldn’t wait to get out of his suit and into her hands.

For her part, Belle was a small little mess. Just having him so near as she led him to the counter sent a quiver of anticipation running down her legs.

It was hard to contain herself during these appointments with Mr. Gold. He allowed her indulgence after indulgence, from those sage-banded black stockings to bralettes he had the audacity to finger while licking his lips. He’d been amenable to her suggestions, discovering a favor for girdles, a distaste for thongs - though she’d always remember the time she got him to try one on.

Surely he realized by now that there’d been more fittings than necessary for his Gold Collection pieces, surely, surely. _Two weeks and it’ll be ready,_ she’d said, but it had been four - five if she counted this afternoon.

Tonight though, she hoped to surprise him.

“I’m sorry again, about our appointment today,” she said.

“Belle, don’t apologize. They’re your customers, your business. They come first, naturally.”

 _You’re my business too, Lennon_ , she wanted to say, but he was more than that.

“I was so excited for our appointment this afternoon, and then, they stayed so long, well,” she said, shook her head. “But you’re here now, that’s what matters. I have something for you.”

There was a quip he wanted to make, something about how all she ever does is have something for him, and all he ever does is come here to beg for it, but he couldn’t quite get the words to form past the look in her blue eyes.

“Do you remember when we first met?” she asked.

“The first time I came into your shop?” he said. “How could I forget?”

She smiled. He always did that, created something warm in her. “And do you remember the first pair you touched, the pair you liked?”

Red, cloud, magic, he thought. “Yes,” he said.

She smiled again, and touched the counter. “I wanted so much to . . . when you placed your first order, the _very_ first, I was so excited, I nearly delivered it in person. That would have been unwise, of course, and I didn’t, but now that we’ve . . . well, I’d like to give this to you.”

And from behind the counter she fetched a box. Her box, the design and edges he’d grown so familiar with, the black with the silver stamped logo. He opened it up with the same slowness he reserved for all her boxes, and she could hardly contain her breath.

The red panties, the oxblood, the beautiful scallops that so captured him before - their matching corset! A garter belt, and oh, oh God, stockings!

“Belle,” he said from somewhere in his stomach.

Her card, up top in the gilded edges as it always was, flipped this time, her handwritten message facing him - _You Are Loved_. He traced the words with his thumb, traced where her hand had delivered the delicate words, and remembered his fevered night from before.

“Thank you,” he said, finally managing to get it up into his throat.

She reached forward to join her hands with his, her thumb run running down the oxblood scallops the same way his thumb had done, so long ago.

“I was waiting for you to order this pair,” she said. “This one you first liked. I thought, surely, after your first few orders - but I knew then, that you were embarrassed. Sometimes just wanting something can be embarrassing. But you don't, you don’t have to be. Embarrassed. Not when you’re here. With me.”

“I know,” he said. “I haven’t been embarrassed for a long time.”

She smiled, wide, gleaming. It hurt to smile this big. “Would you like to try it on?”

“Oh, yes.”

She helped remove the lingerie from the box, helped pass it over to him. Their hands glided over fabric together during the exchange. He let her lead him back to the fitting room, let her shut him inside and be tucked away pleasantly, eager to dress himself in his lovely, lovely new present.

Belle, on the other side of the fitting room door, folded her hands, wrung them the same way she had earlier that afternoon, waited by the fitting platform for him to emerge. His rustle of fabrics was its own pleasant sound while she stood, thinking. Her head was heavy with things the girls had said after he’d left that afternoon, after she’d handed him her note.

Inside, Gold undressed slowly, though his heart was in a near gallop. Red was creeping up his neck now, he could see. Red, just like this dream she’d given him.

Oh, the red panties, his first memory with Belle. The scallops as they picked up slowly under his fingers, her red nail polish against her palms where she’d held the pair. Oxblood, deep, dark. He ran his finger along the scallops once more, up and over, reminded again of their transparency.

Outside, Belle bit her lip.

The red was perfect, dark and earthy. The corset, he held it up, had a deep v cut down its center. How was it to hold without gaping? He touched the v, feeling a stiff metal sewn in, thicker than wire, unable to bend. It laced in the back like his forest green corset; he held it up to himself, wrapped it around his torso - the v would allow for full view of his sternum, dipping so low it was nearly down to the top of his belly! A slim v, a little slice through his chest. The sides of the corset near the bottom were higher than average, and that v was reflected down near the front center. More scallops paneled the back, lace paneled the front - a busy array of patterns smoothed over by that deep red, keeping everything in check.

He set the corset down, Belle would lace him into it soon enough. The stockings, too, she would help him. His panties, though, his favorite part, he pulled them on, and gasped. Once on, the pleasant stretch of his panties held him perfectly, the hollow accommodated him, but the stretch, it, it - the scallops no longer layered for opaqueness. It was beautiful, perfect, but, he could see himself, all of himself.

Outside, Belle ran her fingers over her mouth.

He studied his reflection carefully. Did she like this? he had once asked himself, and the red before him said _yes_.

The fitting room door opened, and Belle perked up. There he stood, a vision of red and brooding, the color doing wonders for him. He was nowhere near finished, just his panties and garter belt on, stockings in hand and corset hanging loose waiting for her expert hands. Her breath was gone at the sight of him anyway.

She held a hand out, he took it while she lead him. They had a routine, now. Of her bringing him before the mirrors, of her tightening and tugging him into place, adjusting and situating until everything sat just right, held him where it was supposed to.

The scallops ran down his front, the lace down his sides. He sat, first, atop the fitting platform, and Belle bent down to help him with his stockings. She rolled them up with practiced speed, started at his toes, up over his heels, his calves - she smiled at him as she approached his thighs. When both stockings were on he stood, and she stayed kneeling to attach the straps of his garter belt to their bands. He looked down at her, the lovely top of her head. Her skirt billowed around her where she knelt, her sweetheart neckline, her rosy lips, her chestnut curls. Her fingers skimming him, her palms pressing.

“I need to thank you, Belle.”

She smiled, let her hands rest on his hips. “You thank me all the time, Lennon.”

“I mean, for . . . yes for this gift, yes for everything. But. I want to thank you, Belle. For being so . . . forgiving, of my leg.”

Her eyebrows raised though she said nothing. She looked down to the scar tissue he was referring to, now covered in lovely stocking. The flesh that ran in pink, uneven lines from knee to ankle on his left leg.

“There is nothing to forgive, Lennon. There is no part of you that needs forgiveness from me.”

He nodded, and with the help of his hands she stood.

The shop had grown dark. The sun gone down, the shadows grown long. The copper lights of her shop shone more brightly, made everything cozy, everything close. So close.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “Thank you.”

She placed a hand on his chest, where the corset sagged and waited for her attention. “Turn around.”

He faced the mirrors, and she started on his laces. That beautiful tightening and tugging feeling, he loved it so. She worked slowly, running her hands over his sides constantly to ensure a smooth fit with no bunching.

“They asked about you,” she said, down near his shoulder.

A rock, similar to the one from earlier that afternoon, formed in his stomach. The girls, he knew. “Oh?”

“They’re under some impression that you are . . . bothering me.”

He frowned, his mind running to unhappy things. “Am I a bother, Belle?”

She giggled. “Yes, but not the way they think,” she said, and the rock in his stomach dissolved with a flip.

He smiled, allowed her good humor to turn him. “I bother them, I’m sure. Going to visit them means I’m picking up a check they don’t want to part with. Or inquiring about the absence of a check. The very burden of a bother.”

He felt her finishing her knot at the top of the corset between his shoulder blades, her tell tale final little tugs and pulls of completion. She took a step back, surveyed her work with a smile, and wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her elbows. She blinked as though dizzy.

“This is a different bother, entirely,” she said.

He looked up at his reflection, the finished product of a man wearing seductive, sultry lingerie. He could hardly believe it. The oxblood, finally his. The smoke, the magic.

Belle felt porous standing next to him, his glow sifting off of him and slowly being accepted into her. It seeped into her smile, filled it up with more teeth and curve. It filled up her arms, made them release herself, rise, touch his shoulders.

“You’re beautiful,” she said. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He turned his head, and he knew how close she was from her warmth and her scent and the sight of her in the mirror, but it was still shocking to find her mouth so near his own. He turned, and reached until he brought a hand to her cheek, and then back around her head as he guided her to him. Their lips connected, soft, big, and he breathed into the kiss, frightened, and she breathed frightened in return.

Her arms moved forward to wrap around his waist, and he felt the pressure of her fingertips against the corset’s boning. She glided, digging pleasantly into his skin. Her fingers were trembling, he realized, as they moved up and over the top of the corset, then accidentally skimmed his nipple, leaving him trembling in turn.

He released her mouth, and looked back towards themselves in the mirror, marveling at the way his hand had mussed her hair, the way her lips had swollen. Her eyes held his in the reflection, wide and blue and large with wonder. She dipped her fingers down again, brushed his nipple again, and then down through his v, over his sternum, his stomach. He watched as her hand moved towards his erection, and he was too engrossed in the sight to bother with embarrassment. She didn’t grasp him, but ran her hand over his hip, over his scallops, down his garter, the bare skin of his thigh. The movement was tantalizing, and his throat bobbed.

“Beautiful,” she whispered again.

“You did this,” he said. “You gave this to me.”

“No, Lennon,” she said. “You gave this to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some of the most fanciful, flowery stuff I’ve ever written and I hang my head in shame.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone. Thank you.

It had been several weeks since his fit that destroyed all the totems on his sideboard.

Small satisfactions, over and over, he repurchased the things he’d broken. The process was quite different from his lingerie venture. No item had an attachment beyond its aesthetic, the affection was hollow. Purchases were chosen for their colors or materials or shape, not because he was in love or had delicately kissed the lips of anybody.

Oh, he’d kissed Belle French.

Her lips had been soft, plush, wet, and had sucked the breath right out of him. Her lips had flipped his stomach and buckled his knees, but that wasn’t the best part. The best was that she’d kissed him back.

Getting ready for his day had become such a lovely thing. Picking out his suit, his tie, his shoes. His panties. Panties! To run a hand over himself and smile at his reflection, to feel beautiful before any other piece of armor was put on, what a rare thing. But now he had a final touch to appreciate, when fully assembled from pocket square to cane, sleeve garters to garter belt, he had one last adornment to appreciate - the warm buzz in his lips, the hot memory of where he had kissed, kissed, kissed Belle French and where she had kissed him back.

He ran his fingers over the spot, the topping completion of his look.

With the perfect ensemble together, suit and panties and kiss, he was ready for anything the day would bring him. The drive to work was better, the unlocking of his shop door, the swing of his back curtain, the greeting of his glass case and everything pretty and tiny inside of it. What a wonderful day this was going to be.

His phone was ringing again, in that distance he always tried to avoid.

It was Jeff, he could see. God, did no one value the patience of a text? Was immediacy truly so necessary? The sun had only just risen and he hadn’t brewed any coffee yet. He was ready to simply let it go to voicemail, but he remembered that promise he’d made to himself. To always answer Jeff’s calls, whenever they came, because having a friend who shared his secret and still called him _friend_ was more than he’d ever had before.

“Gold,” he answered simply, then an awkward cough, because talking was sometimes unreasonable.

“Yes! Good morning. So, Belle’s being coy.”

Gold blinked. Jeff never bothered returning awkward hellos in the way he was supposed to, he knew that, but this was an introduction that threw him. Before he could respond, Jeff continued.

“I think you two got together. I hope you two got together. That woman needs a good togethering, and by God do _you_ ever need some good togethering. She won’t answer, but she’s blushing a lot. That’s usually a good sign. So, I’ll keep this brief, and euphemism-free: did you two get together?”

Gold blinked some more, and his fingers trembled where they held his phone.

If Belle was being _coy_ , as Jeff had put it, either she wasn’t ready to go public with whatever this was they had, or was embarrassed, or valued her privacy, or liked keeping things sacred, or something, and he was taking too long to answer.

If Belle was being coy, for whatever reason she needed, then he’d better be coy too.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, in his very best pawnbroker voice.

“I knew it!” Jeff yelled.

Gold scowled.

“ _Get together_ is a euphemism, by the way,” Gold said.

“This is stupendous! Gold, I couldn’t be happier!”

“I didn’t say anything, you damned man!”

“Ah, but you said enough. And so did Emma, if you’d like the truth of it. This is wonderful. I bet you’re blushing just as red as Belle, right now.”

Gold scowled and scowled some more. He looked down at the hand not holding the phone, the one adorned with his moonstone ring, and thought.

“What’s your joy?” he blurted.

“Hmm?”

“You said . . . you understood, having to hide your joy. You know mine. What’s yours?”

The line was quiet for a moment. “Tsk, tsk, that’s not how this works, Gold. Yes, I know yours, I know Belle’s, but you can’t just _ask_ someone what their joy is. Buy a guy a drink first.”

Gold opened his mouth to speak, but the line had already gone dead.

Despite himself, he smiled. He hoped Jeff was suffering some red of his own, now.

The rest of the day carried on without incident, though his mind kept returning to Jeff’s euphemism. Jeff was always one step ahead with his narrative of just what went on between him and Belle. The kiss they shared was not quite the guess that had Jeff yelling excitedly, or Emma gossiping, but maybe, soon, maybe, well.

Each customer that came into the shop had him wondering if they knew, and what they knew.

Gold ran a hand down over his ledger, smiling again. It was nice to be alone, to smile. He scribbled contentedly, numbers and notes accounting for all the business he’d done that day. The afternoon was approaching, and it wasn’t Thursday, and it wasn’t three, but perhaps, later, perhaps, he could, he might,

The shop bell rang.

Gold released a sigh, finished scribbling his notes in his ledger. He looked up to see David Nolan coming in, carrying a pleading smile, carrying a cautious air, carrying a box.

A very familiar black box.

He narrowed his brows.

If Mary Margaret’s purchase from _The Loved One_ was in there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Belle’s wares were worth great value, both in their hand-stitched fine fabric, and their personal value to him. The Nolan-Blanchard wedding date was over three months away, as far as he knew. Why would Mary pawn such lovely items so soon after she’d bought them, much less ask her husband-to-be to do it? Was this her intent all along? It was disrespectful of the work Belle had put into the garments, it was cruel, it was an outrage, it was -

“Hey there, I was hoping I could get an appraisal for this?”

David set the box on the counter with little of the delicacy it deserved, and Gold reached forward a hand to steady the top, its surface familiar and jarring beneath his fingers. The rose scent he knew so well greeted him.

“And what do we have here?” Gold asked, practiced and smooth.

He turned the box so its opening would face him, and readied himself for the lovely white garment with dark roses he’d seen Belle deliver to Mary Margaret behind her privacy wall and fitting platform. Or perhaps whatever red number her friends had ragged her on about, or some other color entirely, some other lace, some other silk -

Instead he was greeted with porcelain.

“My grandma’s had this plate for ages, and I was looking at it the other day, and I thought, that’s gotta be worth something. She has a whole matching set somewhere, just gotta find it. Mary Margaret and I are planning our honeymoon, and I thought, maybe if I could - ”

“A plate?” Gold said in disbelief.

“Plates,” David corrected. “There’s more.”

No lingerie in sight, no silk, no lace, no red, no white. Little artificial buds still hung in the corners where the lingerie had clearly sat before, and up in the top with its usual gilded corners, Belle’s shop namesake card. The circular stamp logo, the silver, _The Loved One._

“Interesting box,” Gold said idly, having taken too long to stare at everything but the plate.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, the lingerie shop. I, um, needed something, you know, cushioned, to handle something so fragile. Mary Margaret let me borrow it. She . . .”

Gold heard David, he really did, but relief found himself focused on running his fingers down the edge of the velvet cushion inside. A plate. Just a plate. A borrowed box, that was fine. He let his fingers trace, let them paint out the smile he wouldn't wear in front of David. No need for him to see his thoughts. He moved towards the gilded corners up top, towards the card. He removed it from its resting place, flipped it over as he’d done so many times before.

There was no handwritten note.

Belle put them on every order, he thought. She had a stack that she signed and kept handy, that she placed in each box before it was sent out, wrapped up, he thought. _You Are Loved_ , his note had said to him. _This is her common business practice_ , his eyes had rolled with that first order. All the while hoarding the notes, running his thumbs over the ink, the sentiment.

Mary Margaret had received no such note, no personal detail.

“ . . . so, what do you think? Maybe enough to get us to Aruba?” David finished saying.

Gold blinked, and clocked his mind back into the moment. He gave the plate a quick once over.

“More like Vermont,” Gold said, closing the box. “Until you find the complete set, don’t bother bringing me this.”

David startled as the boxed closed, took it when Gold pushed it towards him. “The full set. Got it. Okay, I’ll get looking. Um, how much, you think, if I bring the full set in?”

“Depends on the condition of the set,” Gold said, but he was looking back down at his ledger, having already dismissed David from his mind.

“Right. Okay. I’ll be back,” David said, and left.

Gold followed him not moments after, locking the door and flipping his sign. The unsigned card, which he’d discreetly removed from the box, waited for him under his ledger. He collapsed atop his glass counter, a funny smile on his face as he fingered the card.

Oh, what if she simply hadn’t signed this one? What if it was a trait she saved for shipped items? What if, what if?

What if.

He tidied up his shop. Attended to his usual closing routine, completed his ledger. He couldn’t bring himself to go home quite yet, and found himself lingering longer than usual, toying with trinkets, dusting invisible dust. He brewed himself some tea, drank it in silence in his back room, all the while thumbing her card. He ran a hand down himself, over his suit, over his groin with his panties hidden away. He pictured her face, blushing as she dodged Jefferson’s questions. The expression she held as she had viewed him through the mirror, just before she’d kissed him.

The _perhaps_ he’d been entertaining earlier started coursing through his mind again. He pulled out his phone.

Stepping outside his shop back door, her card in one hand, phone in the other, he faced the setting sun. It cast a blinding yellow beam at him, from the very direction of her shop, and he squinted. Smiled, and squinted.

He dialed her number. He’d never called her before, not since he became Lennon, or she became Belle, not since those early conversations as Mr. Gold and Miss French when she was first inquiring about renting his space.

The last bit of sunlight dipped below the horizon as she finally picked up.

“Hello?”

“Belle?”

“Lennon?” he could hear the smile in her voice, but also something drowsy, breathy.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” she said, and he checked the time. “I was just reading.”

“Not busy sewing up a storm?”

She giggled. “Not on Friday nights, no. I take those off to read.”

Reading. Of course, his librarian. “A real party girl, you.”

Again she giggled, and he heard the rustle of fabric, like she was laying down, or sitting up. “That’s the kind of party I enjoy after my sewing storms.”

He laughed this time, a soft chuckle, and it did funny things to his throat. “I was wondering. Is my order ready? My pieces from _The Gold Collection_?”

“Yes,” she said, then, after a pause. “Just got it in the box today.”

The box, the black box.

“With your card inside, yes?”

“Yes. Always.”

“And you signed it?” he said, thumbing Mary’s card.

She was quiet a moment. “Yes, always.”

He grinned, closed his eyes. “And do you remember my instructions?”

“. . . not to deliver it. Yes. You said you’d get it in person.”

“It’s ready?”

“Yes, Lennon,” he could hear her smile, laugh. “It’s finished, it’s in the box, it’s signed, it’s ready. All ready.”

“Good,” he said. “Good thing. I’d like . . . I’d like to pick it up now.”

Another pause, another rustle of fabric.

“Now?”

“Yes. Is that all - ”

“Yes.”

Another pause, this time on his end while he sucked in breath.

“Did you want to meet at the shop?” she asked. “Or?”

“Or?”

“. . . or my place?”

He was nodding sillily, though she couldn’t even see him. “Yes. Is now good?”

“Now is good,” she said, and he could feel himself filling up with her words. About to brim over.

They exchanged their yesses and thank yous and goodbyes and he crossed the horizon, what was left of that yellow beam and pink sky leading him to Belle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise all these conversations are leading somewhere . . . I promise . . .


	10. Chapter 10

Belle greeted him at her shop door, so similar to their weekly afternoons together.

No lights twinkled, no music played. Her entire shop was on pause, dark and quiet for the late hour. Her rose scent was the only thing that lingered among the lingerie and flowers, and her space suddenly felt liminal, suspended, a breath waiting to be taken. She led him to the back, past her counter, past her fitting area.

“You couldn’t wait for our next appointment, our next afternoon?” she asked.

“I couldn’t,” he said, marveling at the woman in front of him.

He was used to seeing her in skirts and heels, nylons and updos. But now in this late hour her hair was down and lovely, long and tumbling in waves down her back. She wore a chunky knit sweater, and her legs, naked and pale and beautiful, peeked out from beneath a pair of crumpled linen shorts. It made him regret his suit. I should remove this, he thought.

Her back room was a wonder. Messy in just the right ways, fabric piled here and there along a long table with a sewing machine, a wall of cubbies with sewing materials organized and categorized. Boxes, those black boxes, stacked neatly against each other awaiting their velvet cushions and flowers and beautiful wares. The dark left it all in jagged shadow, but his mouth gaped nevertheless. A small desk with a laptop and papers, folders, envelopes sat orderly along the opposite wall, and he knew that was the very spot where she’d received order after order from him.

“Do you truly handmake everything?” he asked.

“Not everything,” she smiled, small. “I have a few suppliers who provide me with ready-made items. But the majority, yes, I slave over myself.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. They were against the wall that stood by the stairs, the ones that would lead them up to her apartment. She hadn’t paused anywhere in the shop or the backroom to indicate she meant to retrieve his Gold Collection box down here, no, the delivery awaited him upstairs, in her private space. The thought overtook him, brought his hand to her shoulder, pressed her back against the wall, pressed his slim frame against her.

Her hands shook, her skin flushed. He could feel how hot she was, body so warm to the touch. She huffed a breath against his throat, and smiled.

He kissed her, his cane falling somewhere, anywhere, and his hands cupped her face and angled her up into him. Her own hands wrapped around him, pulled him closer, and he let his lines fall into hers. She opened her mouth, and her tongue pulled him in, and he whimpered her name though the syllables made no discernible words.

She tasted of salt and sweat, and he probably tasted of tea and worry, but it felt so, so good to kiss her. Relief with each breath as he plucked his lips against hers, slid his tongue against hers, edged her teeth, pretty teeth. With each open of her mouth she would suck in air, tiny gasps that would would feed from the air in his lungs, and he gave her what he could. His scalp hurt and he realized she was pulling his hair, scraping her nails all the way down to his neck, his collar.

He wanted to move down to her neck, her belly, down until he was between her legs and could hoist her thighs up onto his shoulders, but that needed strength his leg wouldn’t allow. And he was getting ahead of himself, racing towards wet and sex and fucking when her chunky knit sweater was so cute and sweet in his hands, and it’d somehow found itself rising and bunched up in his fists.

He pulled back, rest his forehead against hers, released her sweater and brought his hands to the wall. They shared a beat, her lips trailing his chin, and he felt her shaking again.

“This isn’t how I normally do business,” she said. “Flipping the closed sign, locking the door . . . kissing the clients.”

“I should hope not.”

Her hands continued to tremble, shake where they’d grasped his lapels. He really needed to remove his suit.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is unprofessional of me. The whole thing. I shouldn’t be . . . I shouldn’t have written you those notes, arranged private appointments . . . touched you, so much . . .”

His stomach lurched. He cupped her face again. “Is that really what you wish? That none of this ever happened?”

She shook her head.

“You’re worried, though?”

She nodded.

He traced her lips with his thumb. “Well, I don’t exactly do this either, kiss my tenants. If it’s professionalism you’re worried about . . . I mean . . . well . . . fuck it.”

She giggled, hid herself in his jacket, and he wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re the only one I do this with,” he said. “The only one I want to do this with.”

He felt her nodding against his chest, and she finally looked up to smile at him. “You too,” she said. “The only one. You’re the only one, Lennon.”

He pressed a hand over hers, calming her quakes where they held his jacket, his collar. He kissed her forehead. “Belle,” he sighed.

“Let’s go upstairs.”

They retrieved his cane, and up they went, she leading him by his eager hand.

The small landing that lead to her door was lined with pots of shade-craving flowers, herbs. God, she made meadows everywhere, he thought. Her apartment door was open a peek, and he readied himself for the wonder ahead.

“Your leg - are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly, damn those stairs, damn that wonder.

She lead him inside. When was the last time he’d been in this space? He’d arranged for it to be cleaned before her arrival, and remembered vaguely showing up to ensure the work had been done properly. But this was a new space entirely, surely he’d walked through a different door. She’d taken the liberty of painting up here, a soft robin’s egg color in the main living space and a charcoal in the kitchen leading to her small balcony. Bookcases completely lined one wall, full and heavy, but the rest of the main room was sparse and light, save for small corners where she’d stuffed away her hobbies: an open book resting atop the arm of her sofa, a needle and thread and emblem pocketed away on an end table.

She had the occasional tiny picture hanging, gilded round frames with small illustrations of birds, bats, butterflies. It was a curious space, lovely. Clean and tidy, with enough mess to suggest the activities of its lone resident. He loved her shop, found it whimsical, but it was also dark, warm - like a fairytale whispered in hushed, bedroom tones. Her apartment was the same, and every new item he spotted whispered at his ear, saying the most lovely things.

He turned, noted a small silver rack near the entrance with lingerie hanging. Half-finished items, it seemed, though others he recognized as full and ready from her shop from the first time he saw it. The mint number with lavender, the olive with roses.

“May I offer you tea?” she asked behind him.

“Coffee,” he said, turning back to her.

She raised a brow. “This late?”

“No, I’m sorry, I mean - I should have asked you out for coffee. Before.”

“Before?”

He sighed. “I’ve been doing this backwards, Belle. You said, you said this isn’t how you normally do business. Kissing the clients. Well, this isn’t how I normally do romance - kissing the tenants. You’re more than . . . more than the lingerie you give me, Belle. I want. I want to ask you to coffee, sometime.”

She smiled, lovely, pretty, her fingers kneading one another again, little peeks of white poking through the heavy sleeves of her sweater. She looked so perfect, her bulky sweater, her long hair, her bare legs.

“I’d love that, Lennon. I’d love to go to coffee with you,” she said, then, with bashful eyes and a secret smile, “Jeff will absolutely love that.”

“Jefferson Hatter?” he asked.

“Yes,” she smiled, a glittery thing. “He’s a dear friend. Met him many years ago in Boston. He helped me find the right fabrics supplier.”

“And my shop location, so I hear.”

She had the decency to blush. “That means he must have told you that he, er, snuck me in.”

“He did.”

She blushed more, hugged her elbows. Gold approached her slowly, and though he’d been kissing her wildly moments before, his hands were slow to touch her.

“He’s a dear friend to me, as well,” Gold said. “He . . . he asked me about you.”

“He asked me about you, too,” she said, lifting her head towards him as he stepped closer.

It was his turn to blush. “He said you were . . . coy.”

Belle laughed. “You have to be, with Jeff. He’s wonderful - incredibly nosey, but wonderful.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and she wrapped hers around him.

“Are you angry - that he snuck me in?”

“Oh, normally I would be. But, knowing you now, as I do - I think I owe the man a gift for his audacity.”

She laughed again, and he ghosted his mouth along her forehead, her hairline.

Her breath caught. “I have your set ready. The Gold Collection.”

“Yes!” he smiled, closed his eyes. “Is it too late - the hour, I mean - for me to try it on?”

“Not at all,” she said. “You’re welcome to dress here, of course. Rather than go down to my fitting room. If, if you’re comfortable.”

“I am. I am.”

He nuzzled her hair some more, and she felt dizzy, so dizzy. “Tea?” she asked.

“Please,” he said.

He offered to help, but she waved him off, encouraged him to sit. She needed a moment to be alone, to fetch a black box, to close her eyes, to breathe, to compose herself.

Left alone, he indulged in looking around her apartment once more. Bathroom here, bedroom there. Her bedroom, he kept glancing towards - he tried to pay attention to her bookshelves, her pictures frames, but her bedroom kept teasing him. Her windows were open, he could see.

Her living room curtains were closed. It was nice, private. But the moon was spilling into her bedroom, invasive moon, the same that entered his bedroom in his moment of fever several nights prior.

Belle was busy making tea. Pretty Belle, perfect Belle. He could hear the pleasant clink of cups landing in their saucers, and he decided to be bold. He entered her bedroom, rest his cane against the doorway.

He took careful stock of the room. Her walls were cast in gentle shadow from her bedside lamps and that spilling moonlight, and he couldn’t tell if the room was sage or blue. Two great frames hung above the bed with no pictures but pressed flowers between their glass. Nightstands of unfinished wood, a big brass clock, a big black headboard. The bed was made up of bright white linens with a thick, plush down comforter, several pillows - four or five by his quick count.

Unlike the rest of her place, with its clear lines and open space, the bed was rumpled, completely rumpled. The sensuality of her linen before him, skewed and tousled about, wasn’t so very different from the lingerie posing seductively in her shop. He ignored it a moment, walked over to her windows, closed the curtains - there, that was better, her blushes would be for him only, now - he turned, and yes, the room was sage. The bed was white, the headboard black, the walls sage.

Her bedroom had tempted him, and now here, it was her bed that teased. Look at her flowers, he thought, look at her clock. But his eyes kept returning to her white linens in the center. He saw, with a subtle glint, a golden object on her bed. It was peeking out from underneath a pillow, winking at him in a bit of lamp light when he turned his head just right.

The kettle was whistling, and with perfect, pretty Belle busy with that, he decided to be bold again. He ran a hand first over her comforter, a heap of down creating little mountains here and there. Two pillows sat bunched and squashed against the headboard, the others scattered at the foot of the bed. It was for the headboard he reached, for that gold he thought he spied there, underneath. Part of her comforter had been thrown over and squashed in as well, some added protection.

He pushed his hand under the pillow to retrieve the golden object. Brought out into the light, it wasn’t quite gold, wasn’t quite capable of glinting, yet it had called to him anyway against the white of her bed. He wrapped his fingers around the object, breathed it in, opened his hand again, breathed it out. It was long, and not quite slender - a shape so similar to himself, and his mouth parted as he felt the warmth of the object, inhaled its scent. Salt and sweat.

The moon was bursting all over again, and for once in his life, he felt that pleasant high of being responsible for lunar activity.

Behind him, he heard Belle. Her gentle gasp, the trembling of her hands where they clinked the teacups in their saucers upon the tray she carried. Her quick blushes, her breathy _hello?_ when she answered the phone made sense, now.

She entered the room behind him and set the tray on the bed, deflating the mountain of down.

“How - where did you find that?” she asked.

“I saw it, under your . . .  Belle, this is . . . just my size,” he said slowly.

“Lennon,” she said, reaching up and grabbing her neck, her throat.

He turned around, the golden object in his hand open and exposed between them. “I guess you’d know my size quite well . . . from my . . . measurements, I imagine. From . . . all that you’ve seen of me. Our afternoons together.”

Belle swallowed, her chest rising in uneven, daunted breath. “Please don’t be angry,” she said, her eyes welling. “I can explain.”

“ _Belle_ ,” he said, moving forward, grasping her hand, the one at her neck, the one wringing her throat. He pulled it away.

“I’m not angry. Darling, I’m not angry. I’m the one who came into your room when I shouldn’t have. But, please do,” he said. “Explain. And not out of fear for any imagined faux pas you’ve committed. Any violation, or embarrassment. No, explain to me, with every detail you can, every bit of truth you have - so then, darling, _beautiful_ Belle, I can do the same.”


	11. Chapter 11

It felt good in her hand.

Belle sat at the edge of her bed, trembling, because how could she do this? She had dressed him so many times, seen his face grow from a frown to a gentle smile. Watched as his hands glided down his chest encased in lace, silk. His smile of awe and satisfaction, the joy she had brought him, and how could she do this?

Her mouth was dry and she squeezed her thighs together. A trip up to Boston for the hunt of new fabrics had ended with her finding a store - a tacky, wild place, with uncomfortable sex all around her. She loved sex, savored it, saw it as dark and intimate and warm and lovely, but this shop was none of those things. The lights were too bright and the shelving too boxy and the floor tiled in speckled, gritty beige. The movie cases on display showed unrealistic cocks, long and comical and standing too tall, attached to men she’d seen too many of and never before.

Oh, she’d seen Lennon’s cock. Her beautiful Lennon, encased in her oxblood, her forest green, dove grey, black and peach. And when Lennon’s cock stood, her fabrics held him and eased him higher. Her hand had skimmed his hip, his chest, and he’d breathed from somewhere deep in his lungs, hearty and full of her touch, and how could she do this?

The shop had cocks in purple and pink and blue and she wasn’t interested in making love to obvious rubber. She felt silly in the shop, electric colors laughing at her pales, her deeps - the pornographic images crouched beside her and pointed, mocked, made her duck her head. When she found the proper gold object (gold!) it was just the right size and just the right shape, despite the packaging covered in a man and woman she couldn’t relate to at all. Ballooned pecks and weighty breasts and the kind of hairstyles that required lots of goopy, sticky product.

In that shop of electrics and pecks and breasts, she’d closed her eyes and pictured her thin man instead. Her Lennon, lean and bracing, his ribs, his taut belly. Soft hellos, gentle smiles, brown eyes, perfect nipples peeking just above the lovely corsets she made for him. The tap of his cane, the sharp recess of his hip bones, his large hands, and would he mind using them to cover her small breasts?

The sight of Mr. Gold in his lingerie, her lingerie, had cast a spell over her. One that was weaving them closer together, slowly, slowly, but a fever had started to rise in her. She felt guilty for giving in to the fever, for stepping into a shop that looked and felt nothing like Lennon. She had made her purchase and stepped back outside, where a full moon greeted her. She’d blinked away from its large face, embarrassed at what it very well knew she was up to. She’d leaned against her car, bit her lip and frowned. Love and arousal were funny things.

Oh Lennon, she’d thought.

She had driven home, quiet, no music, and stashed her purchase in her closet with a hot hand. The moon had followed her home, taunted her occasionally, but only when her fever became oxblood and fingers skimming over perfect nipples and his lips on hers did she open her closet door again, that hot hand ready for this sad imitation of him.

She was alone in her room, now, ugly packaging discarded, moon outside satisfied and smiling.

Yes, it felt good in her hand - the golden cock was firmer and heavier than her fingers, firmer and heavier than any object she’d used before, and she was definitely doing this.

Because Lennon was much larger than she expected.

According to that shop she should be open mouthed and thirsty for such a surprise. But instead it filled her with trepidation - large could be overwhelming, large could hurt. She feared the moment he would enter her, and that moon had suggested that he very well could. Would her eyes sting, would he pull back? Would he apologize, leave?

She wiped a silly tear from her face, and lay down on her bed. The golden object held itself close to her chest, her sweater. Her pajama shorts lay discarded, her panties already damp from her thoughts of Lennon, panties she’d made herself. They were a very expensive, very delicate fabric and she was soiling them with her arousal. How strange it was, being wet in the eyes and the loins at the same time.

Dove grey panties and _oh_ , she was doing it again, picturing his body, his smile, and how pretty he looked in this same color. She brought the cock down to brush against the grey, lifted the band of her panties and let the cock wander inside for a moment. She pretended it was a part of her the way it was a part of Lennon. It peeked out the top of the band the same way Lennon’s had when he was at full erection. What was it like to have arousal fill up a part of you, make it rise? She smiled and blushed at the memory, trembled while remembering the sound of Lennon’s voice. His gasp when he’d seen his reflection in her fitting room mirrors, when he saw himself peeking from the top of the lingerie she’d made for him.

She removed the cock from her panties, rest it atop her belly, her breasts. Heavy, golden object, foreign and feigned, all of him reduced to a simple, crude thing. But if she closed her eyes, she could imagine what she needed.

It was easy to call up Lennon’s voice, his sweet murmurs, the way he’d rounded her mouth and kissed her. She had his face memorized now, his sharp nose and high cheekbones, his cutting jawline and the bob of his neck every time he swallowed. He swallowed a lot around her, she thought, and the image of his neck, tendons long when he tilted his head, had her running her hand over the gusset of her panties, opening up her legs.

_Am I a bother, Belle?_

Her mouth opened in a small o at the memory.

She gently moved her panties aside, and brought the cock down once more. The tip was cold at her entrance, but she opened herself, opened her lips, remembered his long hair, thin mouth, the way he’d tasted! The way the v of his oxblood corset had dipped down his chest, the way the straps of his garters had run down his thighs. How long she’d worked on that corset, those garters. The oxblood panties, how beautiful they looked now that he wasn’t afraid to wear them.

_You gave this to me._

She braced her head against her pillow, and pushed in. An inch it went, and she gasped as it filled her.

Oh, he’s too big! she thought.

But he’s going in quite easily, the moon replied, and she pushed the cock in further.

In and in, deeper, wet, thick and stretching, she couldn’t believe it. Her eyes popped open, her mouth open in ragged, heaty gasps. He wouldn’t feel this way, cold, but he would feel this thick. And with thoughts of him swirling around her, his voice, his face - her body had warmed enough, opened enough, that the large cock felt good, and her trepidation abated.

She pulled the cock out, and pushed it in again, then again, and again. The visions of him before her encouraged her on. His gentle burr, his gasps, his tongue, wet and darting at his lips. His slim chest, long legs, large hands. Large cock, not so bad after all.

The phone rang.

She blinked rapidly, caught her breath. The screen was near enough that the caller’s name was visible.

Lennon!

Oh, God!

She eased the cock out of her, broken gasps at the _pop_ as it escaped her. She panted, letting her breath calm and her eyes close a moment before reaching for her phone and answering.

“Hello?”

“Belle?”

“Lennon?”

She smiled, wide, breathy. She grabbed the cock, silly cock, and stuffed it behind her pillow, her blanket. Her experiment had left her heady, his voice through the receiver made her dizzy, and he was asking about the Gold Collection, was it ready, can I come over?

Yes, yes, yes.

She stood, and nearly fell over. Her legs buckled and knocked, and she had to grab her nightstand for leverage lest she fall. She laughed at herself, silly Belle, silly cock, and brought a hand to her throat. Her heart was stuck in there, thumping wildly, as wild as her smile. The man the moon had been taunting her with all night was about to come over.

Her shorts were lost in the tumble of her bed, and after a moment of searching she’d pulled the crumpled things on again. She was sore between the legs, a thump there burning just as wild as her throat, and a quick glance in the mirror showed a disheveled girl, a guilty fool. That fool blinked back at her, lips red and trembling, but a part of her had healed, tonight, and that healing was ready for Lennon, for the Gold Collection.

When he discovered her cock, silly cock, golden object hidden haphazardly behind her pillow, the tea cups she’d prepared for him shook loudly in their saucers, and she had to land her tray in the same spot where she’d committed her crime.

“Lennon,” she said, reaching up and grabbing her neck, her throat, that thump.

He turned around, the cock in his hand open and exposed between them. “I guess you’d know my size quite well . . . from my . . . measurements, I imagine. From . . . all that you’ve seen of me. Our afternoons together.”

She swallowed, her chest breaking. Their afternoons, their perfect afternoons. “Please don’t be angry,” she said. “I can explain.”

That girl in the mirror, the fool she’d seen earlier, called out to her, and she nearly ran.

“ _Belle_ ,” he said, moving forward, grasping her hand, the one at her neck, the one wringing her throat, her thumping heart. He pulled it away.  

Earlier, he had kissed her again, had followed her to her back room, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her. He’d tasted of tea and brightness, and she could hardly control her breathing. Her arms had started to curl in on themselves, caging him into her, her nails against his scalp, his neck. His hands had bunched into her sweater, lifted it up, and her stomach rejoiced at the exposure, her breasts eager for his touch. But he’d whimpered, and regained himself, and she’d regained her arms and breath as he’d pulled away.

Her breath was gone again, but his arms were back, his mouth at her forehead, her chin, her face - he was, he was kissing her again, and in between each press of his mouth he spoke and begged and she realized more than one fool had been lured by the moon.

“I’m not angry,” he said, mouth at her cheek, lips dragging towards her nose. “I’m the one who came into your room when I shouldn’t have.” His hand landed at her hip, crept up inside her sweater, and she whimpered.

“But, please do,” he said, lips on hers, breath inside her mouth. “Explain. And not out of fear for any imagined faux pas you’ve committed. Any violation, or embarrassment.”

He reached up and around, gripped her back, kissed, kissed. “No, explain to me, with every detail you can, every bit of truth you have,” kiss, tongue, kiss, “so then, darling, _beautiful_ Belle, I can do the same.”

Her head swam as she returned his kisses, opened her legs where she stood. His proximity, his hands, they eased her fear, her worry. His lips ate her guilt, and she spoke.

“You’re,” she said, “you’re large.”

“Large?” he asked.

She touched the golden object, the cock he held between them, “You’re larger than anyone, anything I’ve ever . . . you’re a bit intimidating,” she said.

His eyebrows furrowed, then one raised in surprise. “Am I truly?”

She smiled, red-faced, ready to laugh. “You are, Lennon. And I felt that I had to . . . prepare.”

“Prepare,” he echoed, looking down at the cock again. He wore a sultry smile, but it faded the longer he looked at the golden object.

“You’re afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

“Lennon,” she said.

He frowned, rubbed his thumb over the tip of the thing, and sighed. “I’m not sure what I’d do if I hurt you.”

She sighed in return. “I had a few fears over what you’d do. That’s exactly why I . . . oh, Lennon, you won’t hurt me.”

“I won’t?”

“You won’t. Before you called me, I, er, prepared, I was . . . practicing, and . . . you won’t.”

His grip on the cock tightened. Practicing. “You’re sure?”

She licked her lips, tongue trembling with her assurance as she nodded.

He watched her tongue, and the hand that was warm on her back started to slip away.

“I need to be sure of something too, Belle.”

He kept close, but moved back just enough to reach into his pocket, where he pulled out her card. _The Loved One_ , her silver logo, stamped plain where she could see.

“Your notes, Belle, I have to ask you,” he said, and he flipped the card. It was blank on the back, and her eyes narrowed. “David Nolan stopped in the shop today. He had your box, was borrowing it to house some silly plate, but your card was still inside.”

“Mary Margaret,” she said.

“Yes. You didn’t write a note to her,” he said.

She said nothing, but reached forward to touch the spot on the card where, yes, her words were absent.

“ _You Are Loved,_ ” he said slowly.

As he said the words, they bloomed where they would normally appear on her cards to him, the ink surfacing in her eyes, thick black across the white.

“Tell me you mean it,” he said.

“I do,” she said.

“And do you truly write it for me only?”

She licked her lips, hesitated. “Not in the beginning, I didn’t, not just for you . . . it seemed like a good personal touch to add to each order. But then, well, when it truly did become personal . . . that phrase, _You Are Loved_ . . . there was only one person I could really write it for, anymore.”

The golden cock in his one hand, her shop’s card in the other. The sex, the love. Surely he saw her now, saw everything.

He closed his eyes, rest his forehead to hers. When he opened them, he smiled. “You are loved too, Belle.”

Oh that heart in her throat fell back, now, eased its way down where it belonged. She reached up, now, trembles eased, and grasped his face, pulled him down to her. Kissed him, kissed him.

The cock, the card, awkward between them, and she giggled. Together they set them aside.

“It’s time,” she said. “The Gold Collection.”

“Yes,” he said.

He cupped her face, kissed her again, and his lips, his hands, felt terribly hot.

“I need to get this suit off,” he said.

She nodded.

He stepped back, hands up in uncertainty, his eyes on hers while he worked out something in his mind. Those hands hovered for a moment, twitched without aim until he finally brought one to his tie. He unknotted the thing from his throat, slipped it from his collar. When he undid the first button at his throat, her cheeks bloomed red.

“Yes,” she nodded, hand grasping for her stomach as he began to unbutton in front of her. His suit jacket he placed lightly on her bed, his tie following. He untucked his shirt, removed his sleeve garters, undid each button, slow, watching her, heavy eyes, parted mouth. That beautiful chest of his, that perfect belly, slim, taut - his shirt he let fall to the floor with neglect, too busy was he with the expression on her face.

When he reached for his belt she swallowed, and he smiled, gentle, but did not stop. Something was blocking her view - oh, her hand, where she was suddenly tracing his stomach - she moved it up to his shoulder, watched as he pulled his belt from its loops, let it slip to the floor. He pushed down his pants, and her eyes grew and her mouth dried as she saw the grey, the dove grey, just like her. Pretty panties, he slipped them off with care, bent down to remove his shoes, socks, trousers, panties from his legs. She held his shoulders while he did, and when he stood straight, oh.

Lennon, naked and perfect, pale skin glowing in the soft light from her bedside lamps. His lines, so lovely, his clavicle, his stomach, his cock, full and erect and pretty, large thing. Her fingers traced him, clavicle, stomach, cock - and when she wrapped her hand around him, he hissed, and he felt so much better than the golden object - heavy, firm, but warm, so warm, so much better.

“Dress me,” he whispered. “Then love me, as I love you.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I'm posting this in a rush for Reasons and it's not where I'd like it to be. But it's twice as long as the other chapters? And it's the yummy stuff you've been waiting for? Enjoy!

_Dress me,_ he’d said, but he couldn’t stop touching her.

Nudity used to be such a bland thing, but here, in Belle’s hands, one at his shoulder, the other at his cock, he felt the tang of remarkability. And his hands, they couldn’t stop moving. They bunched and pulled at her own fabrics now that his were gone, all over her bed, all over her floor.

He’d undressed for her before, of course, down to the lovely panties she’d made him, the corsets. Her handiwork had held his cock before, this was nothing new. But this deliberate nudity, oh. The delicate fingers that had sewed his lace were now stroking his velvet, and it triggered movement in him, and he could hardly keep still. He loved her, and as it turned out, she loved him back.

A hand at her waist, and he let his thumb slip below the band of her rumpled linen shorts. His forehead against hers, his mouth ghosting her nose while her breath ghosted his neck. He could feel her leaning into him, taking his touches, savoring their feel. Her legs opening where she stood. She anchored him where she held his cock, and every twitch of her hand brought him to heel, pulling obedient gasps from him.

His other hand was up, tangling in her hair, pretty hair. He gave a gentle tug, pulling her head back, out of his neck so he could kiss her. Each press of his lips seemed to tighten her grip, and he moaned at the circle they were creating, lips to hand to cock. But there was something missing, the circle incomplete. He let his hand dip down fully into her shorts and cup her, firm, over her panties, pretty panties, and he felt the warmth and dampness of her arousal on his palm. With her moan, the circle felt complete.

“I’m just as guilty, Belle,” he said. “I’ve  . . . prepared, to the thought of you as well. Practiced.”

“You, you have?” she gasped.

He looked down, down to where his hand had disappeared inside her shorts and the sight of his missing hand nearly sent his head spinning. He pulled his arm back, opening her shorts so he could peer inside the gap and see where his palm had connected with her. But a new surprise caught him, and he gasped.

“Grey,” he said.

“Ah?” she said, looking down herself.

“We’re . . . we’re wearing the same panties,” he said.

She smiled. “We _were_ wearing the same panties. Yours are on the floor.”

He chuckled, sweet sound against her forehead. He disentangled himself from her, and brought his hands to her forearms. He used her for leverage, started to move down so he could kneel before her. She blinked as he did so, but helped him on his way. Once down, he looked back up at her face for approval, and she nodded. He tugged on her shorts, pulled them down, helped her lift her small feet to free them from the fabric. She stood, now, simple in her sweater and panties, and he admired her.

 _We’re wearing the same panties_ , he mused, that awe and surprise again. Dove grey, perfect against her pale skin. Just like his! The baby blue band running along the top, the sheer fabric with a delicate pattern of dots that weren’t visible unless one was close. And he was very close. He could see her outline, her lips, her slit where it started.

“What inspired you to make lingerie?” he asked quietly. He ran his hands along her thighs, much the way she’d done with him several times when helping him with his stockings, when measuring him for a new set. The act was terribly intimate, and how had he not suspected that she returned his feelings before? The flush of her lips spoke to him, and he longed to connect them with his tongue.

She took a moment to answer, her eyes fluttering at the movement of his hands. “I wanted to feel beautiful,” she said.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone so lovely.”

She shuddered a sigh, his hands running from front to back, to the edge of her rear. “Well, I grew up feeling . . . quite awkward in my body. My breasts are small, nothing to write home about. I’m short. I don’t like my belly. But lingerie, it makes me feel so beautiful.”

“Your belly?” he said, confused, running fingertips up and along that stomach, just above the lovely baby blue band, then over to her hip.

Her voice shook. “It’s not quite as taut as yours, I’m afraid.”

“It’s perfect,” he said, bringing his mouth to nip at her skin, pale white, dove grey, baby blue, his nose rubbing at her belly button.

She reached down, ran her hands through his hair, and he angled his face up to her, smiled as he rest his chin against her mound, her dove grey fabric. He breathed deep, took in her scent, and more colors started to swirl in his head, the ones he’d seen on her silver rack by the door. Colors and flowers. Mint with lavender, olive with roses.

“Can I undress you?” he asked.

She shuddered a sigh as she looked down on him, as she processed his request. “You’ve already started, I think,” she said.

He smiled, and cupped her hand where it held his cheek. “You’ve seen me, Belle. For quite some time. And, now, I want to see you. I want. I want to dress you, too.”

“In lingerie?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Please.”

He brought her fingers to his mouth, and she blushed. “What would you like to see me in?” she asked.

Now what was that word she’d used? That cute word, his favorite.

“Bralette,” he said, and she blushed some more.

“Yes,” she said, “I have, on my rack, several for you to . . . _oh_ , choose from. With, erm, _ah_ , matching panties. Thongs, and the like.”

Why was she making such sweet little noises? Oh, because his nose was nuzzling her, rubbing her. He marveled at the sight of her, and brought his hands to the band of her panties, curled them inside, started to tug down.

“I’m a little embarrassed,” she said, as he pulled. “These are - ”

“Wet,” he said, all excitement. “From . . . come?”

She shook her head. “Arousal. I wasn’t able to come yet, not before you called.”

“Good,” he said. “I want to be the one to do it. Make you come."

He helped tug the tiny, pretty panties from her feet once he’d pulled them down her legs. Her skin was flushed all over, and it made his chest burn, his lungs lose air. He stared at her, naked, bare, and held his cock while it twitched at the sight. Her own legs twitched, like she was tempted to cross them, but she didn’t. He ran a finger down her mound, her slit, and looked up at her. She trembled, and he grasped her hand, intertwined their fingers.

“May I put my mouth on you?” he asked.

She could hardly speak, but she nodded, and he smiled. He reached up and parted her lips with his hand, leaned forward and licked her with his tongue. She was warm, salt, sweat, perfect. She shuddered, and he felt her legs shake. He opened her, giving him better access to her clit, licked her with a wide tongue, then tried to suck her in.

“Too - too much!” she moaned.

He pulled back, and with the help of their intertwined hands he stood. She fell into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No,” she said, “it’s just - the order. Dress you, then love you. We need to dress you, first.”

She pulled back, wearing a face of such wonder and joy that he could hardly protest.

“Come,” she said, and that word meant so much.

She led him from her room and back into the main living area. God, he was walking with her, naked, through her apartment! Her pale skin reflecting his, pretty buttocks exposed under her sweater. Funny thing. If someone had read this aloud to him, said that one evening he’d be naked and unembarrassed in Belle French’s apartment, removing her panties, his cock erect and bobbing, he’d have shook his head in disbelief. And hoped, and hoped, very much that it would be true, but wouldn’t have believed it for a moment.

She turned to him, smiled. One hand in his and the other reaching to gently touch him, touch his chest, his stomach. Funny thing. He’d never lack faith again.

She led him to the rack, the one lined with all her pretty creations.

“Which do you - ?”

“This,” he said, already reaching for the set. Mint-colored with lavender blossoms edging the bust, another first he encountered at her store. Transparent and barely there save for the straps that would criss-cross her midsection, his favorite, _bralette_. It would bare her nipples perfectly through the fabric, and the straps suggested bondage of a sweet and whimsical kind, lined with blossoms as they were.

She smiled, blushed while accepting his choice, and moved down to the lower rack below.

“P-panty, or thong?” she asked, holding up the pairs, and her stilted breath was so moving.

“Thong,” he said.

Her grin curled up on one side. “Thought you didn’t like those.”

“Well,” he said, his own blush. “Not on _me_ , no, but on you . . .”

She giggled.

She set the pair back on the rack, and reached like she was going to lift her sweater, but he stopped her.

“Let me, please,” he said.

But he didn’t reach for the edge of her sweater right away, he cupped her face. And stroked her hair again, brought his hands down to their silky ends and farther, farther until he was at her hips, skimming them with his fingers.

“Please,” he said again.

She nodded, and he started lifting.

She rose her arms up, obliging his request as he tugged the chunky knit sweater up over her head. Her hair spilled from it slowly, but not before he saw that she wore no bra, no bralette. Her breasts, small but round, perfect, his palms itched - her nipples, yes, yes, his question from so long ago finally answered. They were the same dusty pink as her lips. They were pert for him, and his tongue grew thick at their sight.

“Perfect,” he said, standing back, admiring his lovely Belle, her pale skin, her tongue where it wet her lips as he stared at her. Her sweater fell to the floor, his hands forgetting to hold it.

She smiled, blushing, lashes fluttering and arms tempted to cover herself. “I’ll just,” she said, reaching for the lingerie he’d chosen, but he stopped her hand.

Dusty pink lips, dusty pink nipples. He moved, moved and brought his dusty pink tongue to her, a craving finally met.

“Oh!” she cried, her arms wrapping about his shoulders. “Lennon!”

She tasted so good! He sucked one nipple in, gently, stroked with his tongue, released her with a _pop_ and then moved on to her other breast. He’d nearly toppled her in his sudden rush to consume her, her back hitting the wall, and he soothed her with his palms up and down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to, just had to. You’re too perfect.”

She blushed at his words, a red so different from arousal, and he cupped her face. She brought a hand down to his chest, and let her thumb skim his own nipple. He traced her hand where she traced him, then reached behind him for the mint set.

He removed it from the hanger, smiling as she stood still with heavy breath, back against the wall, staring at him, watching him. He’d be the one dressing her, now. He meant to be suave about it, careful, sexy, the way she was with him. But once off the hanger, the extra straps seemed to tangle and elude him.

“Damn,” he cursed.

She laughed, and helped him.

The bralette didn’t clasp in the back, it was a solid piece and needed to be pulled over her head the way her sweater was tugged from it. The straps needed to be aligned right, their blossoms handled carefully. It was lovely, helping her arrange the thing, get it sorted into proper position. Placing the sheer fabric over her breasts, tracing the buds at their undersides. The blossom-lined straps criss crossing her midsection, hugging her in lavender.

“Oh,” he sighed, looking upon her.

He settled his hands on her waist once the bralette was in place, and stared, and stared. His tongue was growing thick again, and her nipples were pebbled and yearning for him. He could see them perfectly, perfectly through the fabric, just as he knew he would. He bent down, he couldn’t help it, and nuzzled his nose into her, kissed her nipples again. Traced her with his tongue, the beautiful round shape of her breasts, sucked her into his mouth, her flesh and the fabric.

Her gasps above him woke him from his brief dream, and he blinked to see one of her hands had trailed down between her legs. He pulled it from her, stared in wonder at the moisture along her fingers. He sucked them into his mouth, and savored her whimper.

He reached behind for the thong, a much easier affair to withdraw from its hanger. He helped feed the tiny garment up her legs, blossoms perfect at her hips once settled and mint lovely and sheer where it trailed down between her.

“There,” he said, running a finger along the slim gusset. “Perfect.”

“If you keep doing that,” she said, breathy, shaking, “I’ll soil these too.”

“I know,” he said, and did it again anyway.  

He stood back and admired his Belle. Skin flushed red from arousal, hair wild from her previous exertions, blossoms wrapping and holding her just right. She was stunning, enchanting. Fantastical, a fairy whose garden he’d stumbled upon and didn’t deserve a bit. She pushed off from the wall, and turned around for him. He admired her ass where the thong showcased her lovely cheeks, hid nothing from him. He touched her back, let his hand run down. Over the thong, between her, and she trembled.

She turned round again, grasped his forearms. His cock was erect and aching as ever, and he gasped as her blossoms made contact along his stomach, her breasts touching his chest. She kissed him, and he tried not to crush her flowers as he wrapped his arms around her, brought her closer.

“I like this,” he said. “Getting dressed together.”

“Yes,” she said, breathy sigh. “And now it’s your turn.”

She reached below, behind the rack, between the wall. There, yes, a black box. The Gold Collection.

She held it up for him, a warm smile on her face. He smiled in return, and lifted the lid, her rose scent wafting out. Inside, all he could see was color. Gold and light. It glistened, and he marveled. He placed his hands inside, and, though he knew better, squeezed the fabric. How cool it felt, how perfect! The feeling to close his eyes was overwhelming, but he couldn’t stop now.

Along the top as it always was, her card. Her handwritten note, he plucked it, flipped it over, ready to read her words and then devour her mouth in gratitude. But much to his surprise, a mouth was already there - a kiss, pale pink lipstick just under the _You_ and his eyebrows rose. He touched the kiss, and looked up at her.

She was blushing some more, a beautiful red, those pink lips smiling. “I got a bit indulgent with this one,” she said, bashful, lashes down towards her smile.

Golden fabric and thread, lovely, just perfect, but he hesitated to pull it from the box. Her other box adornments were missing. There were no flower buds, no cushion. He noticed, now, that there wasn’t room for any. The box was overly full with golden fabric, piled deep, and he counted: corset, panties, yes, he’d ordered those, stockings, yes. But there was more. He thumbed at the fabrics, lifted them carefully. A girdle? And?

“The robe,” she said at his furrowed brows.

“This is . . . much more than I ordered,” he said. “So much more. Oh, Belle, I can’t possibly accept all this.”

She licked her lips, covered his hands where they held the box. “The extra . . . it’s a gift, Lennon. But, it isn’t a gift for you . . . . so much as it's a gift for me.”

He looked at her again, her bashful smile, and narrowed his brows.

“You wanted to pick these up in person. You’re, you’re here, now. And. I want you to try them on. For me. To me. I want to see you, Lennon. I want. I want to touch you this time, while you wear your lingerie. Truly touch you.”

She’d already touched him, gripped him, bare. He’d already touched her, couldn’t stop himself. But this would be different, he knew. Darker, stronger.

He nodded.

She helped him lift the items from the box. Arrange them, just so.

“I get to pick,” she said, before he could reach for the corset.

It was the girdle she grabbed, the panties, the robe. Garters, and, oh, gloves! He’d nearly forgotten. Gold and shining, perfect. The robe was of such a thin material it felt like wings where he held it, and he lost himself in the gleam of the fabric while she led him back into the bedroom.

It was funny being dressed with no mirrors. Just a rumpled bed and a wild fairy to inspect him and put him in place. His eyes started to flutter closed from all her motion - the grip of the girdle about his waist, the slide of the panties up his legs, the tug as the garters clipped to his stockings. The gloves on his hands - they hooked on his middle fingers, made lovely v’s across him before ending solid and lovely up his forearms. The robe was last, a light and perfect thing, the arms ending just above the gloves, the back ending just above his stockings.

When finished, his first impression was the look upon Belle’s face. She brought her hands to her mouth, steepled her fingers against her smile.

“There,” she said, just as he had. “Perfect.”

She took a step back, reached out for her closet door. When opened, a mirror was on the other side, and he saw himself, and, and,

She’d made a meadow of him.

There, crafted very carefully with golden thread along his lower torso where the girdle held him, was a rose. As he turned, there, stitched into the robe, roses. Lovely meadow, they didn’t feel like roses, they felt like handprints, kisses, _Belle_ , all over him, and he smiled something watery and aching.

“Oh, Belle,” he said.

He turned - the robe tied at his waist made him look slim, sleek - his rear where straps led down to hold his stockings gave him a shape that had him blushing. Was he really this beautiful? Was his body truly so good? He raised a hand, admired the v of his glove. It made him feel powerful, magical, oh. He spread his fingers before him, the gold that led down from arm to hand to v. It pointed, straight ahead - he looked up, the glove, his hand, was pointing an arrow to Belle.

Her hand was held out to him, and he took it, gently.

She led him to the bed. The pillows were in a pile, the comforter rumpled, his clothes and lingerie in a heap. But the tray and its tea, gone cold and forgotten, was the only thing she bothered to remove from the bed. He watched her, a mundane task made sultry for the bralette she wore, the thong. The curve of her body as she knelt down to move the tray had his mouth going dry, his hand cupping his groin.

She bid him sit, scoot back, lay down. Fabrics billowed around him. She crawled atop him, and he readied his hands to welcome her waist, but instead she sat near his legs. He looked up, watched as she ran a hand up his thigh, up his stomach.

She was admiring him, he realized.

Her hands trembled where they traced his stomach. “Do you know how beautiful you are, Lennon? Laid out on my bed, in the lingerie that I made for you. This, here, this peek of skin just between your panties and girdle,” she said, touching him as she narrated, her fingers moving along the taut muscles. “You’re amazing. You’re breathtaking.”

She moved, slowly, climbing atop him, her thighs straddling him, and he ran his hands up and down her legs, smooth pale things. He could hardly look, could hardly see straight, for the feel of her fingers approaching his groin. She seemed to struggle as well, one hand over him, the other touching herself. Her breath was heavy, catching.

“And - here,” she said, moving her hand down and running her fingers lightly over his erection where it strained against the lovely gold fabric. He looked down, and gasped. His cock, it was halfway out already, peeking over the top of the band of his panties, hard, leaking onto his stomach. His cock, that she’d tucked so carefully into his panties, already out again, wicked thing. She moved her hand forward and traced him. Up and down, delicate touch, from the smooth of his skin to the friction of the fabric. Her hand disappeared into her thong, but the sheer fabric allowed him view of her touches.

“So beautiful,” she murmured. “Your cock, hard and long for me. Resting on that beautiful stomach of yours, waiting for me. So taut, so rigid. You’re shaking.”

“You’re shaking, too,” he said.

She was, but she licked her lips, and moved her hand to the band of his panties, rubbed her finger right along the head of his cock now, and he lost all sight completely. Her mouth opened and her tongue rubbed the roof of her mouth. She pulled the band of his panties down, watched as his erection bobbed free.

“May I put my mouth on you?”

“Yes!”

She leaned forward, and his stomach jolted as her lips, her tongue, connected with his tip. Ages ago, she’d traced the bands of his stockings along her mouth, and dreamt of this. Now, she traced the tip of his cock along her tongue, opened her mouth, and sucked.

He cried out, or he thought he did, an aching sound escaping his throat. His hands had moved down to her hair, her jaw - he felt how wide she had to open it, and his eyes blinked rapidly in worry, but another strong suck had that aching sound escaping his throat again. Her lips around him, oh, her tongue - he could feel the grain of her buds on his underside, could feel the sharp tug of the band of his panties where it pressed up into him. It was painful in the best way. His eyes rolled in his head and the only thing for leverage was her hair. He was likely worrying her scalp with all his grip and pull.

He felt her take him deeper and he gulped for air, blinking down to look at her. He did look big, inside her mouth like this, her small hand gripping him. She took him in strong little sucks, moving up to focus on his tip, and he stilled his hips lest he buck into her. Oh, the sight! His cock rising from his panties and into her mouth!

“Too - too much!” he cried.

She pulled back, and he took a moment to gather his breath. He reached forward, took her hand from his cock and intertwined his fingers with hers.

“The order. I have to love you first,” he said.

She narrowed her brows. “Dress you, then love you,” she said. “That was the order. We dressed, silly.”

She ran a hand up over her breasts, her mint, her lavender. Down her thighs, between her legs. She paused there, rubbing, and he groaned.

“Let me do that,” he said, rising with what strength he had, gathering her up into him. “I have to love you, I have to . . . come in you,” he murmured, and she grasped his hands, gently brought them to her breasts, let her head dip back as he kneaded her, moved his mouth to her throat. He pulled her down, pulled her into him.

“Let me do that,” he repeated, cupping her as he had before, “let me in, Belle.”

He pushed his hand inside her fabric at her nod, warm and wet where’d she’d been rubbing herself, and took pleasure in pushing his fingers inside her. She gasped and her hips bucked in surprise, and he smiled.

He pulled his fingers out, twisted them - twisted until her panties were moved to the side, and he rolled them over until she was pressed into the bed underneath him, his hips cradling hers, his cock kissing her entrance. She gasped, his tip pushing just past her lips.

“Please, Belle,” he said, “if you’re ready, I want to, I want to,”

“Yes,” she said, wiggling her hips down, “love me.”

He pushed in, gently, an inch, and her breath shook.

“All right?” he asked. “Too much? Too . . . large?”

“Yes,” she naid, nails in his shoulders. “But. I like it. It’s you. Please.”

He pushed in deeper, gentle, slow, little beats of his hips as she pushed a slow rhythm back into him. She gripped his robe, let it open and fall around them, pulled his lips down to hers. Lifted her knees to cradle him deeper, and he moaned into her mouth.

“You’re” _push, push,_ “sure?” he asked again.

“You’re fucking me,” she marveled. “Loving me. You’re in me, you’re, oh, Lennon, I’ve dreamed about this.”

The confession had his eyes watering, and he let himself fall.

“Ah!” she cried, how he stretched her! It was marvelous, this golden clad man atop her, his chest pressed into hers, his breath mixing with her breath - so much better than the golden cock, so much better than her own hand pushing it inside her. His suit jacket caught under their legs, the rest of his lingerie under their hips, and him busy obliging her every cry, pumping and filling her, pumping, fucking.

She tugged at her breasts, her hair, pushed her hips down to meet him greedily. He was about to burst, she was too beautiful, felt too good, and he needed to help her along. He reached down, pushed his fingers inside her panties again, started to rub.

“Out of all your flowers, Belle, out of all your buds, this one is my favorite,” he said, finding her clit, rubbing, pinching.

She cried out, coming around him, his large cock, her walls pulsing and she sobbed into his shoulder. He pushed harder into her, likely hurting her, damn him, but she felt so good, her convulsions milking him, her grip on his robe, the way the band of his panties dug into the base of his cock as he fucked her, loved her, and _oh, fuck, yes_ , he was coming into her, groaning into the pillow above her head, mouthing his pleasure at her hairline.

He pulled out, he was worried he’d hurt her enough, and she groaned with his withdrawal. He rolled them again, til she was on top, til his robe had tangled the both of them, and huffed out a wide smile.

“Amazing,” Belle sighed into his chest. “Perfect.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Sore,” she said, running a hand between her legs, soothing herself. “Sore, but nothing more.”

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

“Good to be sore,” she murmured back.

They were sweaty, heavy, loved, and he smiled, their breaths panting in the cool air of her bedroom. He saw their reflection across from them in her closet door, narrow mirror - fabrics so pretty and gliding on their forms. How funny it was, to get dressed together, to make love.

A glint in the mirror, and he looked above them, a necklace hanging from her headboard. Moonstone, and he smiled bringing a hand up to it, comparing it with his moonstone ring.

“The moon,” he said.

She sat up, confused, until she saw the jewelry he was playing with, his ring and her necklace mingling together.

“The moon,” she said, smiling into his hand.


	13. Chapter 13

This was  . . . far more comfortable than he was expecting.

What had he been imagining before? Sweaty skin and constricting fabrics, his breath too hot against Belle’s neck as he gave in to the call of sleep. To sleep in one’s girdle and stockings would only warrant a nightmare of a morning, a crick in the neck and back and thighs. Not yet, he tried to say, let us undress first, open a window - but sleep had come anyway, him still dressed, panties and robe and all of it. The straps of his garter belt were going to dig into his thighs and his robe would end up twisted and tugging. His gloves were going to ache where they pulled at his middle fingers, his stockings would moan itchy and long. His suit jacket was under his legs, it’d be wrinkled and ruined by morning, and his belt buckle would only stick further and further into his heel.

Yet blinking awake he felt pleasant, floating. Somewhere at the top of the ceiling, staring down at the warm body cradled atop him. When he’d called Belle to ask that he come pick up the Gold Collection _now_ , he hadn’t anticipated a night inside her arms, between her legs. But here he was, a part of her bed, a part of everything he wore that she’d made him - her pink kiss was somewhere, her card probably still in the living room, proclaiming her _You Are Loved_ over and over every time he remembered it. The blank card he’d arrived with, proclaiming nothing, had fallen away to a place he’d never have to think of again, and he smiled.

How late was it? How early? Belle’s lamps softened the room and her curtains hid how black it was outside, stars twinkling in gossip, a moon smiling and satisfied with its accomplishment that evening.

Gold took a breath, the constriction of fabrics and the weight of Belle’s warm body warranting him little air, but he was happy with the funny prison. Her ribcage on his, he allowed his arms a brief stretch before wrapping them around her, careful not to interrupt her snooze. I could stay like this forever, he thought. Die right here and hollow out and rot and perhaps her ribs would fall into mine, intertwine the way our hands do, wouldn’t that be nice.

A hand down her back revealed a gritty feeling, and he looked down. Lavender blossoms were everywhere. Oh no, he’d ruined the pretty little bralette she wore, the panties. They were in a messy pile all around them, and he frowned.

“Belle,” he whispered.

She stirred gently and rose, blinking with glassy eyes and he was unsure if she truly saw him. She reached up to touch his mouth, and a sleepy smile crawled across her face. She touched his lips, his nose, then leaned forward and let her lips speak something soft against his, though he couldn't tell what she was saying. Her head fell down to his neck, then she shifted until she was off him, laying beside him, her back to his chest. He turned, as well as he could for a for man twisted in a silk robe, keeping his arms engulfed about her. He nuzzled her neck, kissed her hair, and she stirred some more. He ran a hand up her stomach, the grit of her poor, ruined lavender caught between his fingers.

He tried to say her name again, but she started rubbing her rear into his pelvis.

The full air he’d fought for earlier came rushing in as she grasped his hands and brought them to her breasts. He could feel where her nipples were pebbling against his palms, against her bralette, and he obliged the gentle rhythm she’d started to set with her hips. Easy and slow, back and forth, coaxing him gentle into something hard that she longed for.

“Belle,” he said again.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

Ah, she was awake. He opened his mouth to her hair, russet strands nearly falling inside as he spoke. “Yes,” he said. “Always okay.”

He moved his hands to her straps. The ones about her midsection, sad things barren of their blooms, then the ones at her shoulders, tugging slow. Tug tug, little effort, but her breasts were soon exposed. He covered them with his palms, pressed his cock between her buttocks where she pushed her rhythm against him. He followed her beat, tried to use the friction against her backside to ease the band of his panties down, allow his cock to come free.

She reached behind herself and felt along his stomach until she came to the band herself, pushed it down. She must have felt the mess, felt the blossoms, but she stayed focused on her task, working her hands until she felt him hot in her hand and free of fabric. She reached forward and pushed at her own lingerie, trying to get her thong off, movements languid and sedate, and he did a funny thing. He reached down and grasped the strap that ran down her ass and tugged, tugged until the fabric was pulling tight against her clit and she shuddered.

“Lennon,” she gasped with a smile.

He grinned at his small triumph, then helped push the small scrap of fabric down her legs. It caught near her ankles, and she crossed her feet together to prevent him from removing it entirely. He let it be, and returned to their rhythm and pushing against her. They pushed together, pushed and pushed until his cock was successfully between her legs and he was rubbing his shaft against her exposed lips.

“Lennon,” she gasped again, pushing with his every pull, rubbing.

He kneaded her breasts, rough as he liked, pumped his hips against her. The rhythm was slow, drowsy, a perfect back and forth and he hid his head in her neck. She rubbed herself along the shaft of his cock, rode the pleasure he offered, brought her hands down to feel the tip of his cock disappearing and reappearing with every pump of his hips. He brought a hand down and cupped it over hers, and together they felt his cock peek in and out from between her thighs, rub against her lips, her clit when she angled her hips down just right.

With her fingers she pressed his cock up tighter against her, tighter and tighter until his tip was finally slipping between her wet lips, back and forth until he was pushing at her entrance.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yes, so good. Please, please,” she said.

She couldn’t quite open her legs with the trap of her thong at her ankles, and he considered kicking it off. But the way her back was arching as he entered her, oh. Gentle inch, then another, more, more. She moaned, pushed her hips further back into him, angled as far back as she could so he could fill her. Her warmth had his eyes fluttering, and he mouthed at her neck as he filled her in small pumps, more and more.

He moved her hand out of the way, greedy to be the one to cup her cunt and rub her clit as he filled her over and over. She obliged the request, bringing her hand up to knead the breast not being engulfed by his other palm. But she started to tug that hand, bring him up to her mouth, up until she was sucking his thumb up inside, and his eyes widened.

Her moans were lovely, and the worry of her teeth where she sucked his thumb caused him to pant. The deeper his pushes, the harsher her bites. He let his rhythm build more vigorously, pulling her tighter into him with his anchors at both mouth and cunt. She popped his thumb out of her mouth, started to bite at his wrist, suck in what small amount of flesh and glove she could. In between bites, he could hear her murmurs, hurried and hushed. “Fuck me, fuck me, love me, oh Lennon, fuck me, love me . . .”

He closed his eyes. Focused on the lovely words his beautiful Belle spoke. Beautiful, perfect Belle, she needed him.

“Yes,” he murmured, dark at her ear. “I love you. I fuck you.”

He pumped harder, deeper. He scissored his fingers around her clit, squeezing tight as he could for how slippery and wet everything was getting. He could feel his fingertips grazing the base of his cock where he entered her, and he pressed against both himself and her, leveraging them both until they came.

Her orgasm shuddered long and hard through her body, gentle sobs he could feel on his wrist where she bit him. His own orgasm had his hips spasming erratically, back and forth until he was slipping out of her, spilling onto the bed. “Ah!” he cried, meaning to apologize, to curse, but she clapped a hand down over his, pushing their fingers together into her cunt, and she finished her spasms around themselves, two as one inside her.

She pulled their hands out together, gentle laughter mixed with her sighs as he panted for recovery. He kissed her hair, her neck, her temple, all his mouth could reach with the stretch of his neck. She turned her head just enough that he could reach the edge of her mouth, and he kissed her there, as much as he could while they caught their breath.

A long moment passed, warm and pleasant, and she tried to turn in his arms to face him. His robe, lovely robe, tangled now in limbs and sweat did little to help her. She reached up with tingling arms and shaking muscles to help push at the fabric, help guide it down his arms, untwist. It was a slow affair, messy muscles unable to work properly, too lazy and tired from their lovemaking.

With gradual hands she helped unclip his garter belt, tug at his girdle. She undressed him in no hurry, helping to ease fabric sticky with sweat and sex down his legs, over his head. When he was finally nude, he marveled at how pretty he still felt. Belle still blinked at him with admiring eyes, still brushed her hands over his nipples, his stomach. His lovely Belle, and all the beauty she’d given him, still there, even when it was all off.

He helped her, now, helped gather her straps, bunched up at the midsection and tugging until he could pull the ruined bralette from over her head. When she was nude before him he traced her ribs, lovely ribs, and marveled at the marks on her skin. The love bites he’d apparently placed all over her neck and shoulder, the nips at her jawline. They were finally nude together, and surely there was nothing prettier than this.

He brought a hand down her back, felt the indents in her skin where the straps had pulled too tight from all their loving and fucking. She, too, ran her hands over the indents in his skin, where his garter straps had pulled with his pumps, where his robe had twisted and bunched.  

Eyes no longer glassy, she touched his mouth again. He pushed his fingers into her hair, marveled at his wrist when it came into view, red and pulsing from all her bites and sucks. He rolled them until she was on top, closed his eyes at the pleasant feeling of her ribs clicking into his.

“Kiss me,” he said.

She smiled and obliged him. Smiled into his mouth, over and over, and he smoothed her hair, smoothed her back, ran a hand up their sides. Two fingers on her, two on himself, gently counting their notches.

“What is it?” she asked, curious at his touch.

“Before you woke up,” he said, “I was picturing your rib cage falling through mine.”

She blinked. Her lips parted and she was confused until she brought a hand down to cover his where he’d stopped his counting. She felt the bones he was fingering, the rub and dip of her ribs against his.

“I’d like that,” she said, touching her stripes of bone where they clicked in place with his, a simple pattern: his rib, her rib, his, hers. “Our sternums, though, they’d get in the way.”

He brought a hand up, pushed it between them, touched the very spot she spoke of. “Our lungs, too,” he said.

“And our hearts,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. No, I’d never let my heart get in the way. Not anymore.”

She blushed something very red, and he kissed her again. “I like that,” he said. “Watching your heart pump. Your blood vessels widen across your pretty cheeks. Everything you’re feeling coursing through, your reaction to my words so easy to read. Promise me something, please?”

“Hmm?”

“That I can do this, always?”

“Pump my heart, you mean? Widen my blood vessels? At all the sly things you say?”

He nodded.

She smiled into his palm, nodded too. “Yes. Yes, I promise. As long as you promise to keep saying them.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “I promise.”

They kissed again, and he ran firm hands down her back, greeted that grit feeling again. He pulled a hand away, brought it up to hold between them, show how sticky it was with all her broken bits of lavender where all their earlier friction had undone their placement.

“I ruined your set,” he said. “Belle, I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, gently, and sat up, straddling him. She ran her hands over the blossoms that lined the bed, stuck to their skin. Goodness, he was covered in it too.

She leaned over the both of them, leaned until she was grasping at her nightstand. He turned to see her grabbing a jar, clear with a burnt tea light inside. She upended the jar until the tea light fell out, deposited it back on the nightstand. With the jar at the ready, she started gathering the blossoms about the bed, and he blinked, watching her a moment before gathering the wits to help her.

They collected the lavender in scoops, having to sift through the mess of the bed. They pushed the items off, his clothes, her comforter, her pillows, until they’d gathered all they could into the jar. Her bed now blank of any garments or bedding they crawled back on together, lay and looked at the jar, all the blossoms that used to adorn her lovely lingerie.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I got . . . caught up, in loving you. I wasn’t careful.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want you to say sorry. They’re ruined, I know. But I like it. I like this,” she said, caressing the jar. “We ruined them together. These flowers are a testament, now. To tonight. To everything we did together.”

“Everything we’ll keep doing together.”

She smiled, brilliant, beaming. “Yes,” she said.

He smiled too, crooked, smug. “There’s that red again, just like you promised.”

“There’s those sly words again. Just like you promised.”

He chuckled, kissed her, let her red continue.

They held the jar a little longer, thumbs running over one another, free hands caressing shoulders, backs. It was nice, this, finally being nude, both them and the bed free of anything at all. His come had spilled somewhere on her comforter, or maybe his jacket, he wasn’t sure. He’d have to dry clean them, and that small bit of reality ground him, but he wasn’t ready for grounding yet, floating as he was with his Belle. He was too buoyed in admiration, the pretty of the lavender between them, the glow of the red on her cheeks.

And the red made him remember.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Mmm?” she said, blinking lazy eyes up to him.

“This is very serious now,” he said.

“Mmm?” she said again, for the corners of his mouth suggested it very well wasn’t.

“During Miss Blanchard’s fitting. Did you sell her whatever red set the girls had prompted her to buy?”

“. . . yes,” she said.

“. . . it wasn’t the same as my red set, was it?”

“Oh, Lennon, your oxblood?” she said. “No. Not that red. Not that red at all.”

“Good,” he said with a firm nod. “Wouldn’t want to upstage her.”

Belle burst out laughing, perfect sound, and he joined her laugh with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, folks. This has been such a lovely journey, thanks for sharing it with me :) :)


	14. Chapter 14

It was the afternoon.

He was going to be late if he didn’t hurry. But his mind was swimming with the options before him: he’d come in for peonies, but those had turned out to be out of season, and the double tulips suggested by the florist weren’t quite the same. Lavender was too obvious a choice, and nothing else was calling to him - but then he heard it, small cry, there, yes.

Nightfall roses, the florist had called them, so dark they were nearly black. Something about them spoke _Belle_ when he closed his eyes, the black of his vision mingling with the pale of her skin. They were perfect. Roses carried an easy message, after all, self-evident with every petal. And since he didn’t have a pink kiss to offer, these would have to do.

He got as big a bouquet he could without looking comical, interspersing bits of white baby’s breath throughout until he had a proper night sky to deliver. He was hastily tapping his cane down Main Street, bouquet in one hand, his eagerness in the other, when Jefferson stopped him.

“Someone’s on their way somewhere special,” the man cooed, eyes large and enjoying Gold’s bouquet a bit too much.

“I am,” Gold said simply. “ _The Loved One._ ”

“ _The Loved One,_ ” Jefferson repeated with a smile. “With roses, no less. That message won’t be lost on anyone, I’m afraid. You’ve got no mystery about you.”

“That’s the point,” Gold said, turning into his shop, unlocking the door with brisk.

They stepped inside, Jeff following him in though he hadn’t been invited. Gold didn’t mind, and took advantage of the man’s presence by making him hold the bouquet while he set about looking for the perfect vase. It couldn’t be black as well, he needed something sharp and bright. Belle liked to add light to dark things.

Jeff moved to the side, bouquet large in his arms and he hadn’t complained, just accepted them and now stood watching Gold’s search with an amused expression. He looked down at the flowers, admiring them, maybe, or counting.

“Roses,” Jefferson said, frowning slightly. “But, Gold, _black_ roses? Seems a mixed message.”

“Nightfall,” Gold corrected, eyeing his top shelf. “They’ll say exactly what I need.”

“What _exactly_ is that?”

“Use your imagination, Jeff. What comes up when the night falls down?”

Jeff eyed his friend carefully, mind mulling, looked down again. “Stars?” he asked, staring at the baby’s breath.

“The moon,” Gold said, soft smile.

Jeff’s frown flipped, a surprised laugh escaping him. “That’s incredibly poetic of you,” he said. “How very magical.” He regarded the bouquet again, taking greater joy in his simple task of holding it, and laughed again.

“You know, I think I’m ready,” he said.

“Well, I’m not,” Gold said. “Still need to find a vase.” As he spoke the words he spotted it: tall and silver, double handed, etches of vines along its neck. Perfect.

“No, I mean, I’m _ready_ ,” Jeff said. “To tell you my joy.”

Gold paused where he stood, arms outstretched high to grasp the vase. He brought them back down to his sides, turned around and looked at his friend.

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t initially kind about your joy, and for that I apologize. And I’m going to have the, er, let’s see. _Audacity_ , I suppose is the word. I’m going to have the audacity to ask that you be kind with mine.”

Gold folded his arms. He was used to people spilling strange, personal details to him, the kind that involved money, the kind that needed his help. This wasn’t that, and he did his very best to unfold his arms, and present a face open to whatever Jeff was about to say. The man had accepted him nearly naked in a wool trench coat, after all.

“Have you got that moonstone ring I procured for you?” Jeff asked.

“Aye,” Gold said, ring large and obvious on his finger.

“I gave Belle a similar necklace, not too long ago.”

Gold nodded, fully aware of the necklace that hung on Belle’s headboard.

Jeff looked sheepish momentarily, eyes looking down in a way Gold wasn’t used to. Jeff was bravado, Jeff was insistence, Jeff was magic. This Jeff, though, while still smiling, was a little dimmer than all those things.

“I cast spells, you see,” Jeff started, slow, and Gold narrowed his brows. “Now, here’s where my audacity comes in: I hope you don’t mind that I cast a spell . . . on you and Belle.”

Gold’s lips parted, but nothing came out. He narrowed his brows further, opened his mouth wider, but still nothing came out.

“It wasn’t a love spell, no worries there, I would never be so presumptuous,” Jeff said, stepping forward and taking over the task of reaching for the silver vase. Gold stood aside at the sudden, abrupt move, damning the man and his extra height which allowed him to reach the vase with ease.

“I would never cast a love spell,” Jeff continued, moving to the counter and setting the vase down. “You can’t really, free will is too strong. I simply asked that you two be able to . . . know one another. And from there, whatever form that took, however it took, was up to you. The both of you.”

Jeff fiddled with arranging the bouquet into the vase, and Gold stood to the side, watching him work, arms no longer tempted to fold, but unsure what to do at all.

“Got any water?” Jeff asked.

“I’m sorry,” Gold said, “you say you _cast a spell_?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds silly. Water?”

“In the back. Are you saying you’re a -”

“Don’t say it aloud, now! The townspeople may hear, gather their pitchforks. Besides, I’d never presume so gracious a title,” Jeff said, smiling. “But I suppose that’s the only real word for it.”

“The one you won’t let me say,” Gold said.

Jeff smiled, smaller than he normally did, but nodded. “Words have power, Gold. You of all people should know that. You deal in words, after all.”

Gold stared at him, perplexed but utterly fascinated. “I was imagining something quite different, to be honest. Your joy.”

They walked to the back room together, Jeff locating Gold’s sink easily. He had to take out the flowers all over again just to fill the vase with water.

“I’m tempted to ask what you thought it was I enjoyed,” Jeff said. “What nefarious endeavors you thought I pursued in my free time. I do love talking about myself, you know.”

“You’ve made me forget whatever it was I thought your joy was, honestly.”

“Ah. Perhaps that for the best, then.”

Jeff rearranged the flowers again, Gold able to take a moment to appreciate how perfect they looked in the vase. He couldn’t wait for Belle to see them. He mulled over the time; he needed to leave soon, but his conversation with Jeff had been so enlightening, so strange, and a thought was nagging him.

“You . . . cast a spell,” Gold said slowly, tasting the words again.

“You don’t have to believe in it,” Jeff said, anticipating his doubt. “It’s mine. My joy. That’s what matters. But,” he licked his lips, moved his hand up to touch the bouquet again, but didn’t, letting it stand as it was. “I apologize, I do. For, eh, that audacity I spoke of. For involving the two of you.”

Gold fingered his ring, the moonstone Jeff had given him, and eyed the bouquet above, flowers he’d so thoughtfully picked out for Belle.

“Jeff,” he said. “You gave me this moonstone . . .”

“I did.”

“. . . you gave her a moonstone . . .”

“Mm hmm.”

“. . . you . . . cast a spell? On me _and_ Belle?”

Jeff nodded.

Gold sighed heavily, grasped the vase about its middle, but couldn’t yet get his feet to move.

“But . . . _why?_ ”

Jeff was quiet a moment before answering.

“You both needed a friend,” Jeff said, in a tone Gold had never heard him use before. “That was my original intention, when I thought of the two of you. That’s what spells are, really. Intentions. Wishes. When you blow out your birthday candles, when you pull a wishbone . . . you’re hoping for something, something that cannot logically be achieved by extinguishing a flame or defaming a poor turkey’s remains. But it’s stronger than that, you see. I saw the hope the two of you had and I . . . allowed myself some hope, as well. Some intention.”

Gold shook his head, the uneasiness of his thoughts hard to explain. The bouquet in his hands, the night sky he’d created for Belle, the moon she was and the moon that had been haunting him. It couldn’t mean, it just couldn’t,

“Jeff,” he said, “I refuse to believe that whatever you did . . . led me to feel this way about Belle.”

“Oh,” Jeff said, crooked smile, understanding. “Of course not. Nothing I did _made_ you feel this way, Gold,” Jeff said, his smile returning in force. “Nothing I did made you love her. Please tell me that’s what you’re saying. That you love her.”

Gold’s mouth opened, but Jeff stopped him.

“Only say it if you’ve already said it to her! She needs to hear it from you, first! Words have power, remember!”

“She’s heard it,” Gold said, gentle sigh. “Of course she’s heard it. I love her.”

Jeff smiled, something warm and long. “One stone longed to reconnect with the other. And when it did, whatever form of attachment its owners took  . . . well, that was entirely up to the two of you.”

Gold mulled over the words.

“And I must admit,” Jeff continued, “you took up the happiest form I know. You two are positively glowing these days.”

“You could have just introduced us the normal way,” Gold said, annoyed smile.

“I could have,” Jeff said. “But there’s something . . . magical, if you’ll allow me the pun, when you meet someone on your own, separate of anybody else’s introduction.”

“You’ve been waiting for this, I imagine,” Gold said, eyes darting to the time again.

“I’ve positively been on the edge of my seat in anticipation. Manifestation is such a lovely thing to see unfold. Gold, you keep looking at your clock.”

Gold blinked, chuckled, yes, he’d checked his clock for the hundredth time. “I have an appointment to make. Flowers to deliver, you know that.”

“That’s right, your something special for your special someone. I imagine it involves more than merely delivering flowers.”

“It absolutely does. Which is why it’s time for you to go, right now. I’m about to be late.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Goodbye, Belle’s _Loved One_. Enjoy your afternoon.”

Gold thought about thanking Jeff as they departed, locking up his shop and waving the man off on his merry way. Bravado Jeff, Insistence Jeff, and now, he knew, quite literally, Magical Jeff.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Jeff’s confession, his joy. It was one thing to cast a spell on stones, it was another for the moon to follow and haunt him all these many nights. It was another to be enchanted in the spells Belle herself wove for him, over and over, every order, every stitch of fabric. It was another to hover above her, kiss her, his chest touching hers, her pupils dilating as he rocked and spoke love into her. Magic, or whatever it was Jeff did, _cast spells_ , seemed to be in everything already regardless of confessions.

Gold made his way down the street again, his own small spell properly housed and nourished, his allusion in a vase, perfect for his Belle.

They had more than the afternoon, now.

Her closed sign was secure and her front door locked, he smiled as he knew no lingering customers would be about to interrupt. He entered through the back, his new, designated entrance, private and often left with a small card taped inside, just for him. _The Loved One_ , simple circle stamp, greeting him with a smile.

He flipped the card over, eager for whatever private note she had for him today. One day an _I love you_ , another a comment on his suit, another something silky and filthy, _My mouth is ready for your cock_ , or the like. Oh, it made him tremble!

Today’s message, however, her pretty scrawl, surprised him.

_I know what you did, generous man. The happy couple left for Aruba this morning_

He set his bouquet for her on the workroom table, careful of landing on any bolts of fabric. He scoffed at the card, though his lips couldn’t help their curl.

Belle heard him enter from where she sat on the fitting platform, her latest selections for him ready to be tucked and tailored to his body for his fitting. They saw each other nearly everyday, now, yet their weekly appointment remained, a beautiful reminder of their beginning and an indulgence both were unable to give up. Belle loved dressing her Lennon, Lennon loved being dressed by his Belle.

Today she hoped to tempt him with black. He often turned to dark colors, but never truly committed to that beloved color, deep and inky beyond the reds or blues or greens he’d worn before. Stockings yes, a pair or two of panties, yes, but a full ensemble? She couldn’t wait to get it on him.

She smiled at the lingerie and it smiled back in its anticipation, arranged carefully atop the platform, ready to breathe around Lennon in a proper fitting. She turned towards the back room, eager to greet her guest, and found him standing and staring at her card. Eyebrows furrowed but a smile that couldn’t help itself.

“Don’t deny it,” she said, referring to her card. The Nolan-Blanchard wedding had been a lovely affair, and their honeymoon destination was the talk of the town.

His eyes glinted with rebuttal, and she could practically hear his thoughts damning the smile on his mouth. “Not sure what you mean,” he said, all tease.

“Mary Margaret said David showed you a promising plate, then sold you the full china set for quite the price tag. Wondered if you paid out a little more than necessary.”

“I did nothing of the sort. David’s paltry plate wasn’t even part of the original set he brought me, that was the real gem. The man can’t tell a Wedgwood apart from a Bed, Bath, & Beyond purchase. Honestly, I’m the one who came out on top here. Got the set for half the price it’s truly worth.”

Belle hummed and batted her lashes, his smile continuing to betray him. This was an argument he wasn’t sure he’d win, and he didn’t particularly want to. Perhaps falling in love had made him a bit soft about the edges, a little more sentimental than his past self allowed. What of it, really? If it made Belle look at him like that, her lashes skimming her cheeks and her grin so pleased and soft, maybe he’d get sentimental more often.

“Lennon!” she said, attention diverted. “Are these for me?”

His bouquet beckoned her, her hands running up the vase before clutching the roses and bringing her nose down for a dip, and his waist seized as it felt an echo of the sensation. That coy grin of his turned pleased, and he set her card aside, eager to take a message of love from her lips today.

She ran her fingers along the rose petals. “Black,” she said with wonder.

“Nightfall,” he said, resting a hand at the small of her back.

“Nightfall,” she repeated, brows down, running her thumb over the baby’s breath. “Oh, Lennon! You brought me the night!”

“The night, for my moon,” he said.

She curled into him with her gratitude, and he wrapped his arms around her. “Ah!” she gasped into his chest, unable to articulate just how generous his gift felt, just how lovely.

“I have . . . something similar for you,” she said.

“Oh?”

She picked up his bouquet, cooing and commenting on the vase, and he closed his eyes at her appreciation. She brought the flowers out to a display table, arranging sets of pale blue panties to border the vase where it stood. The end result was stunning, a lovely display. Their moon hovering above her craftsmanship, folding into her shop. A little piece of him on display, a part of her store in a way he hadn’t been before, and he closed his eyes again.

“You have beautiful taste, Lennon, have I ever told you?” she said, running a hand down the vase, tracing the vines.

“Taste,” he said, eyes opening, tongue growing heavy. That word, it sounded good.

She motioned to the fitting platform, and he saw the black lingerie she’d laid out. Pretty, delicate, a transparent set, small beads of white pearls lining its edges.

“Nightfall,” he smiled, the black with the tiny whites.

“You like the pearls?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. You have beautiful taste too, my Belle. Adding your light to dark things.”

She marveled at him, and perhaps he was capable of casting spells as well.

“Anything for _my_ moon,” she said.

He was eager to change, eager to dress in this lovely lingerie set she’d chosen for their afternoon, and he reached up to tug on his tie. She walked over and helped him, grasping onto the lapels of his jacket.

“Such taste,” she said, caressing his fabric, admiring his suit jacket, his vest. A black and grey affair with pale blue accents. Like his flowers, her panty table, and he preened at her touch.

“Taste,” he said again, such a good word. “May I taste you?”

Her cheeks colored in that way he loved, and she nodded.

He touched her lips the same way she’d touched his petals, kissed her with all the reverence her pretty mouth and their pretty moon selves were due. She held him closer by his fabrics, wrapping her hands inside his jacket, using his vest and his belt for leverage, and it gave him an idea.

“Shall we dress you?” she asked before he could speak. **“** You’re the perfect model, you know.”

“Am I?”

“Mm hmm. Working on you has been far better than a dress form. Already taught me so much.”

He smiled, happy to be her dress form any day. Her hands slipped down and around his belt to the front, undoing his buckle. He hoisted her closer to him, and the afternoon would last forever if they continued on like this. He hoped they would.

“You know,” she said.

“Yes?”

“You’ve. You’ve never asked me to model for you.”

And oh, how she read him so perfectly!

“I would never be so presumptuous,” he teased.

“I wish you would be.”

He wrapped his own arms around her, his idea taking shape, width. The same as her slim frame, the same as her narrow shoulders, her collar, her inseam, and he pressed close.

“Model for me, Belle?”

She smiled wide, blushed, placed her hands upon his chest. “What would you like to see me in? A teddy, a romper?” she said, smoothing a hand down. “A bralette?”

He licked his lips, let his answer come slowly.

“Actually, darling, I think I’d like to see you in a three-piece suit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to get sentimental for a moment, and thank you for reading this once-silly, ultimately-tender thing I wrote. It say seem small, but writing and finishing this little fic helped pull me out of a pit I was in for a long time. All of your comments have meant the world to me. Thank you so, so much.
> 
> On that note, Gold's particular turn of phrase at the end was chosen intentionally . . . the next story to receive updates is Come Slowly!


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